Fear These Knights
by rogermein
Summary: It is the thirtieth anniversary of Exar Kun's defeat. The Republic's finest have gathered en masse to celebrate the victory and heal old wounds. Revan is reluctantly drawn into the occasion but he quickly discovers a threat that will jeopardise the peacemaking. With enemies within and without, he must navigate the webs of intrigue and discover the true danger before it is too late.
1. Author's Notes

Author's Notes:

Hello, and welcome to my story: _Fear These Knights_ , a sequel to _The Forgotten_. For those familiar with my work, there are a few different things I wanted to try this time around.

1\. Even though _Fear These Knights_ is a prequel to KOTOR like all my other stories, the prologue and epilogue will fast forward to the end of KOTOR. The reason for this narrative jump should become obvious as the story progresses.

2\. The story will be narrated by a character I introduced in one of my earlier stories. Don't worry, Revan is still the protagonist of _Fear These Knights_. Try and think of it as a Sherlock Holmes device except with more explosions and politics.

3\. The main story revolves around an event called the Triumph. All chapters will chronologically count down towards and beyond it. The reason for this will also be made clear.

4\. For new readers who may not be familiar with my other stories, here is the proper reading order: The Gathering Storm, The Enemy's Hand, The Forgotten, Fear These Knights.

5\. The update schedule for this story will not be as frequent as my previous stories. Things are always busy so my writing schedule is erratic at best. Also the scope of the story is…audacious. The good news is I have the whole story mostly mapped out so long delays are not because of writer's block, but because it takes time to structure. Basically what I'm trying to say is that if the story isn't updated for awhile, it's because details need to be added.

6\. Standard disclaimer. I do not own any Star Wars characters. This story is for purely recreational purposes.

As always, feedback is always appreciated. Thanks and hope you enjoy the ride.


	2. Dramatis Personae

_**Dramatis Personae**_

 _ **Holy Order of the Jedi Knights**_

 _ **Factions within the Holy Order**_

 **Unaligned**

Revan – Jedi Knight

Exon – Jedi Knight, "The Wall"

Mysteel Vao – Jedi Knight, "The Golden One", "Death That Comes With Laughter"

RC592X-T47 – Prototype Combat Droid, "Forty Seven"

Hethrus Fellfang – Jedi Knight

Bastila Shan – Initiate

Corinth – Initiate

Merita – Initiate

 **Keepers of Sanctity**

Noctua – Jedi Knight, "The Voice of God"

Amarinthe – Jedi Knight, "The Unbound Tempest"

Helian – Jedi Master, "The Conciliator"

 **The Exemplar Host**

Atris – Jedi Master, Historian, High Council

Vrook – Jedi Master

Lestin – Jedi Master

Belisar Primus – Jedi Master "Primus Inter Pares"

Bodica – Jedi Master

 **Ameliorators**

Vandar – Jedi Master

Dorak – Jedi Master

Oriax – Jedi Knight, "The Sword Saint"

Miriam – Jedi Knight, Healer

Celiste – Jedi Knight

 **Argent Circle**

Kreia Avarthra Treia – Jedi Master, Historian

Estagar – Jedi Master

Phaedra - Servant

 _ **Republic Army**_

 **Deralian 4th Vindicators**

Ava Onasi – Sergeant, 1st Company, "The Nutcracker"

Ciras – Sergeant, 1st Company, "Face Man"

Maerton – Captain, 1st Company

Priel – Sniper, 1st Company

Donahi – Private, 1st Company

Savina – Private, 1st Company

 **Harvonian 125** **th** **Praetorians**

Ghorian – Captain, 25th Company

Hvraine Major

 _ **Republic Personnel**_

Githraine – Ambassador

Ailene – Ambassador's Aid

Janipur – Game Hunter

Levicus – Chemical Engineer Contractor

Temione – Security Chief

Borsis – Diplomat

Coran – Civilian

Versa – Civilian

Sevard – Civilian

Kasparov – Senior Operations Administrator, "Master of Logistics"

Lizbeth – Ministry of Defence Representative

Endrovar – Senior Administrator for Republic Agriculture

Kynes – Sniper

 _ **Echoes of Exar Kun (Rebel Alliance)**_

Alivia Nox – Jedi Knight (Excommunicated)

Santagar Nox – Jedi Knight (Excommunicated)

Carmon Nox – Disciple

Desabel Nox – Disciple, "Dez"

Manford Nox – Disciple

Morivar – Disciple

Lelieth – Disciple

Espereth – Disciple

 _ **The Mandalorians**_

Mandalore – Mand'alor, "Sole Ruler of the Mandalorians", "The Ultimate"

 _ **Clan Fett**_

Durgal Fett - Shiib Tal

Cassus Fett - Shiib Tal

 _ **The Shattered Clans**_

Ursh - Ruug-la Tal , "Calamity that walks",

Sumaron - Ruug-la Tal

Naradeth Shax - Ruug-la Tal, "Adat Ures Ijaat"

 _ **Unknown Allegiance**_

The Spite Queen

The Silent King


	3. The Archive

**The Archive**

The following archive is an unedited account of various historical events recorded in Republic history.

I say unedited because the Republic record is riddled with sins of omissions and outright fabrication.

To wit, the first Republic record of a 'Mandalorian' joining the Jedi Order is recorded as 1060 BBY, almost 2000 years after an actual admittance. The reason for this secrecy is simple. It would have been political suicide for a Jedi Master to publicly accept one during the tumultuous period of Mandalorian aggression.

Other entries of historical omission are less obvious to the public. For example, it is famously stated that 'Revan' discovered the Mandalorian atrocity on Cathar on 3963 BBY and found a mask that would become his trademark. Then in defiance to the High Council representatives sent, he donned said mask and declared a crusade against the Mandalorians.

There are several errors in that record, or perhaps it would be more charitable to say there were several deceptions.

First, Revan didn't discover the atrocity on 3963 BBY. The massacre had happened ten years prior and he was well aware of the fact years beforehand. Reconnaissance teams had been sent to survey all the worlds despoiled by the Mandalorians on the Outer Rim. Cathar was simply a statistic in a galactic genocidal campaign.

However, even with obvious evidence of Mandalorian encroachment, Revan's attention was focused elsewhere. We, the Inner Circle decided the resources at our disposal were insufficient to react at that time. The event was noted and archived until further notice.

Years later, we were reminded of this incident by a member of the Imperitus Circle, a Cathar who decried the atrocity to his homeworld publicly. He forcefully requested intervention and petitioned us to act immediately.

Revan deliberated this development with us. Arguments were made both for and against finally revealing our strength. Many of the Inner Circle were still resistant to begin this phase of the operation. Our forces had not been fully mustered and clashing with the High Council too early could diminish our advantage. Others argued that delaying a public reaction would limit our legitimacy in the eyes of the allies we had fostered during our preparatory years.

Eventually Revan decided the time to control the situation and how the wider Republic would react took priority. It was better to control the narrative now than to react to the High Council's slander.

A doppelganger agent was deployed to the ruined home world in order to make a public scene. The goals of these actions were threefold.

The most obvious one was to stoke the outrage of the wider Republic. By establishing the moral high ground of avenging Cathar's despoilment, public and military support quickly shifted in our favour and out of the grasping council's hands.

The second was for practicality. As the theatre of war grew to a galactic scale, Revan knew he could not be everywhere at once. Even with his trusted agents he could only keep up the omnipresent charade for so long. By publicly declaring he would not remove the mask until the Mandalorian threat was over, the agent extended the list of assets who could assume Revan's mantle substantially.

The third goal was linked to an oath Revan made years ago. It will not be disclosed in this section of the archive.


	4. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _ **Time check:**_ _3956 BBY_ **,** _8 hours, 45 minutes, 39 seconds after the destruction of the Star Forge_

Tell me, what lie did you believe today?

The Republic is based on lies. Every society is.

It is absolutely essential that falsehood be fed into one's psyche because the mind can only accept so much truth before it breaks.

Lies are the foundation of hope, the incubator of delusion that lets you survive each day amidst a growing sea of tragedy. In self deception, you find a balm for the insufferable, the catalyst for heroism.

The foundation for love.

Even when one is presented with undeniable fact, the mind has a way of skewing reality. Truths are twisted through the prism of an individual's perceptions. It is molded into something palatable, more suited to their own point of view. We learn to _crave_ these fantasies for they feed our convictions much like an opiate feeds an addict.

Make no mistake. Without these carefully crafted lies, our realities would shatter. I understand this fact better than most.

But there is danger in drinking too much from that poisoned chalice. Basing your whole existence on falsehood can be fatal. To hinge the fate of the entire galaxy on a lie, that is...

There are only two great sins in this universe of ours. One is to peddle your lies for personal benefit. The other is to believe them.

I consider these facts as I watch the scene before me unfold. It is almost comically absurd in its irony.

Throngs of spectators cheer a motley crew. Some stand like heroes. Tall, proud, and noble, reminiscent of portraits in classical antiquity. Others are more rigid, their smiles fixed like frail porcelain, ready to shatter at the slightest disruption. The rest are immune to the cacophony because nothing resembling a soul beats within their cold metal cages.

An admiral in parade uniform marches among the assembled victors. She is pinning the highest honour the Republic can give to its servant. Each medal is worth more than several artifacts rotting away on the Throneworld's dusty museums. The admiral wears a diplomat's smile, reciting words of gratitude that were meaningless even before the stars grew cold. There is a restrained tension in the back of her eyes, a hint that her role in this masquerade gnaws at her soul.

Perhaps she understand the irony of the situation as I do.

Yet there is genuine happiness among the crowd, not the forced joviality squeezed from a hired throng. No, this euphoria has been birthed from the knowledge that the war is finally over. That the darkness has passed. And that there would never be another cataclysm that could come near to tearing the galaxy asunder.

And all because of one person. The crowning centrepiece of this celebration.

The Prodigal Knight.

Vandar proclaims it. Those very words. There is so much hidden connotation behind that term. A son that had been led astray by darkness but has found himself back among the righteous. A villain that had seen the error of his ways and returned to the light. A man that had found love and triumphed because of it.

I wonder how many people in the galaxy will take this story at face value. I wonder how many are willing to believe this fairy tale ending that was spawned from the nightmares of those very schemers standing on the podium today.

Vandar, Vrook, Dorak, Lestin...they were there from the start, the survivors of a game that has been rampaging unchecked even before the full fury of ancient powers made themselves known. The others on the podium all had different roles to play in the genocidal farce throughout the years but those Masters were at the epicentre.

They were the ones that made sure all the smiles died when true salvation was at hand.

Then there is her. Yes, her.

I watch Bastila now as she stands next to the Prodigal Knight. She seems different since we first met. A measure of steel has been imbued onto her psyche, no doubt a result of the many trials she has endured since. There is also relief...happiness, something I would never have conceived possible years earlier. She presses close to the Prodigal Knight, their kinship plain for all to see.

My opinion on her fate is always conflicted. True, reality has been cruel to her. She has suffered more than most people will in several lifetimes. On the other hand her sentence of execution is long overdue. Her crimes are manifold even if she is unaware of their role in the galactic context of things. I do not speak of her recent...lapses in judgement. No, I talk of sins committed before she found herself captive to a lesser pawn.

My hand is stayed only because Revan commanded it.

I once demanded an explanation before the end. Why should Bastila not be put to the sword like so many wayward souls he had personally sentenced?

His answer was as simple as it was infuriating.

 _Because he would not have wanted me to._

I cannot argue the truth of that. Even if I drown myself in lies, that fact cannot be distorted through any self justification I give myself. He would not have wanted it and I respect the requestor too much to sully his memory.

By chance she glances in my direction as the celebration reaches its apex. At first she merely blinks, unable to fully register what the eye sees.

But as the mind dredges up old wounds, recognition finally dawns and her mouth contorts in horror.

She whips around, perhaps to warn Vandar and the other conspirators, perhaps in a futile attempt to ward the Prodigal Knight.

By the time Bastila has turned back I am already gone.

In time she will come to think of me as a figment of her imagination, a paranoid recollection from a fraternity that is only whispered through trembling lips. She will let the matter drop and focus her attention to carving a new life with her newfound love.

It is just as well. I am not here for her today. Today I pursue a goal much more audacious.

The procession begins to subside. The crowd will disperse soon and the celebrations will become more personal in nature.

I must be swift. The window of opportunity will not last forever.


	5. Revan: On Oaths

_Authors Note: I forgot to include this excerpt before Chapter 1. To the reader who posted the first review: Thanks! Glad you're back for the ride. I'll try to keep the length manageable but there is a lot of ground to cover. To answer your questions: 1. If this series ever gets to the actual Mandalorian Wars, then yes, those characters will show up. 2. Revan and Meetra may have a significant relationship but not a romantic one._

* * *

 _An oath is a contract written in blood._

 _It is more potent than any weapon made by mortal hands, more binding than any legislation, more enduring than eternity._

 _By swearing an oath, you are giving yourself to a cause unequivocally. You are declaring nothing less than complete commitment to an objective until it is achieved._

 _That is what gives an oath its power. The knowledge that your honour, your very identity is on the line. If you fail, your soul will be forever tarnished. Death will not absolve you._

 _The burden is heavy, but it also alters the mindset. It spurs you to perform feats that would normally be beyond one's capacity to archive. A double edged sword indeed._

 _No oath should be taken lightly. All Knights understand this. Yet we swear them nonetheless upon ascension: To defend the Republic until death. To uphold the peace. To put all personal matters, desires, and feuds aside in service to its people. Heavy words. But it is a stark reminder that once we take up the mantle of duty, there is no turning back._

 _Knights must always be vigilant that they act in accordance to their oaths. They must balance their principles against the bleak reality of necessity. Concessions will be inevitable. Do not go into a mission with the mentality that you will never compromise your beliefs. Not only will this damage your long term standing with associates, it has a tendency to cause more collateral damage. But never go so far as to break your oaths because that will lead to damnation._

 _No one is more detested than the Oathbreaker._

 _In all cultures the Oathbreaker is reviled because it is a transgression against the natural order. By reneging on an oath, you have broken a compact with the Force itself. You have committed a crime against the one thing that is sacred across every plane of existence. Even in a galaxy where moral fiber is considered expendable, that is not something to be tolerated._

 _The Force remembers. It remembers every word you bellow to the sky, every sibilant whisper. All utterances made by mortal lips will be accounted for. If one's actions run contrary to their promises, then the Force will exact its measure of vengeance. You can trust the Force to be an impartial arbiter in that regard._

 _Oathbreakers will be hunted to the ends of the existence. They will be hounded until captured and brought to justice, whatever fashion that justice may take._

 _You do not break from the Order without suffering the consequences._

Revan, _Observations: remark 6, section 2_


	6. Chapter 1 - The Escape

_Authors Note: I forgot to include an excerpt called "On Oaths" that was supposed to come before Chapter 1. It has been posted now. To the reader who posted the first review: Thanks! Glad you're back for the ride. I'll try to keep the length manageable but there is a lot of ground to cover. To answer your questions: 1. If this series ever gets to the actual Mandalorian Wars, then yes, those characters will show up. 2. Revan and Meetra may have a significant relationship but not a romantic one._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _3966 BBY, 3 weeks, 10 hours, 15 minutes, 56 seconds before the Triumph_

The bazaar is a demonstration of controlled pandemonium.

Throngs of bodies shuffle through the marketplace, jostling, shouting, carving out meaning in a meager existence. The alchemy of species is impressive. I see humans haggling with Bith black marketers. Wookies drinking with Twi'leks. Rodians and Vultans tossing dice. Even Sand People, those infamously reclusive wretches from Tatooine walk in plain sight. Three shove a Neimodian back and forth for some trifling provocation. No one bats an eyelash. The capacity for apathy here is palpable.

Perhaps it is the heat. The heat on this planet is unnatural and stifling, erected by a sun that glares mournfully through smog choked clouds. Incense burners smolder on every stall, fuelling the oppression. I feel sweat trickle down my neck in rivulets. It is hard to focus. Everything feels surreal, surrounded by a haze that distorts both sight and sound.

"Be quick about your business, human. I don't appreciate your kind here."

I look up at the shopkeeper. The Iktotchi is glaring at me. He knows I am not a local. I smell too clean, too _off world_. That is a dangerous scent to have. Corvaine is not a xenophobic civilization, but it is a reclusive one. Outsiders are not appreciated.

That is to be expected on a rebel planet.

The idea that a star system can raise arms against the Republic is uncomfortable. The fact that Corvaine has succeeded is appalling. 'Wretched Corvaine' off-worlders call it. Splinter of civilization. Symbol of defiance against a crumbling institution. So many insults.

It is a precarious a position for its inhabitants to be in. Within the galactic context at least. The fact that it exists at all demonstrates how far the Republic has fallen since Kun's war.

Now is not the time for such musings though. I return my attention back to the shopkeeper's supplies. Their quality is inferior to Order provisions but desperate times forces one to adapt. I pay the wary merchant and leave.

Unease grips my chest before I even take my first step. A subtle but persistent tremor in the Force. Danger.

I look around. Nothing seems amiss. Just the endless sea of dilapidation. The lines of hungry mouths that go on forever. Children and cripples beg for alms like nature intended. Yet many of them stop their chanting and stare at me sullenly as I pass by. Spies? No, that is ludicrous.

Then there are the trees. Mammoth palm trees sway restlessly above me as I walk. The rustling sounds like grumbling. Even the plants resent my intrusion.

I shake my disquiet away and quicken my pace. It is not wise to tarry, danger or no. Especially when…

"[Command] Halt meatbag."

I freeze. So do many bystanders. That voice. So malicious. So...artificial. Only one thing has that speech pattern. I turn around.

A droid stands ten feet away. It looks unimpressive at first glance, hallow and gangly. Its chassis is incomplete, half cobbled together from spare parts. Dents and rust marks score its surface. A mark of neglect.

The appearance is a sham, a carefully cultivated facade to deflect suspicion. Its wiry frame is supported by a reinforced exoskeleton. The musty bantha cloak around its shoulder conceals implements of murder.

The droid is an assassin. I know this because I have met this droid before.

I know the one who sent it.

"[Judgement] Meatbag, you are in violation of Jedi protocol R-23941. By order of the Holy Order, you will submit yourself to incarceration. In the name of the Republic."

I curse softly as people begin to murmur venomous words. This is bad. A trap with potentially hundreds of casualties. Had my hunter possessed a soul, I would have sensed the jaws closing in miles away. Yet to catch me completely unaware, that is a feat worthy of a professional killer. Only one of the many qualities I find disturbing in this automaton.

Bystanders begin to surround us with undisguised animosity. Insults are hurled. Others are throwing rotten fruit. One spatters on my head and trickles down in rivers of blood.

The droid does nothing as chaos bubbles around us. It seems to be enjoying itself.

As always, it is the ocular implants that make me most uncomfortable. Beady, bloodshot lenses that rest within a flat snouted head. Intelligent malevolence lurks behind them, entirely unique to this soulless construct. Always judging. Always calculating.

Evil is an meaningless abstraction, the definition differing from culture to culture. But I would not chastise someone for classifying this droid as such.

"Go back to your Republic _bastard!_ " someone shouts. "We don't want any of your kind here."

The throng of bodies roar in agreement. A woman behind the droid rushes forward, hand raised. Foolish perhaps but the mania has emboldened her. The droid turns fractionally, observing. It reaches out with casual disdain and grabs her wrist in mid strike.

It swings back around.

Metal fingers twist her arm at an unnatural angle. I hear the pop and snap of bone shattering. She shrieks as the assassin hauls her close to its chest like a meat shield.

"[Mockery] Thank you meatbag for volunteering to be my hostage." announces the droid cheerfully. It blithely ignores the woman's howls of pain while putting her into a neck vice. The crowd gasps as a blaster is raised to her temple. "It will greatly expedite negotiations."

Panic escalates. Insults turn into screams. Children are crying. I step forwards, hands raised. My mind races furiously, trying find some way to diffuse the situation.

"Let her go. Your master's quarrel is with me."

The assassin's ocular implants flare briefly.

"[Indignation] I would thank you not to call him my master, meatbag. It implies servitude."

I keep my hands raised, never taking my eyes off the weapon.

"Then walk away. Pretend you never saw me."

A blurt of binary emits from its vocalizers. Laughter.

"Neither of us want things to get out of hand." I take a careful step forward, judging the distance. "If you can guarantee no one gets hurt, we can discuss terms."

The droid cocks its head.

"[Observation] It is true that the meatbag expressly forbade me from creating casualties..."

The droid points the weapon away from its victim. I relax slightly.

"…but he neglected to mention extreme bodily harm."

The assassin shifts and squeezes the trigger. A blaster shot kneecaps a gawking Rodian. The alien screeches in its bizarre dialect, rolling in the dirt. The crowd's screams intensify. People start shoving each other to escape.

"Bastard!" I take an angry step forward but the blaster is up again. The hostage sobs as the muzzle singes skin. I freeze.

"Okay!" I shout over the din. I hear the groans of people mixed with the screams. Men and women trampled by the escaping throng. "You've made your point. A life for a life then."

The droid makes another peculiar noise through its vocalizer. Disdain?

"[Taunt] Your cognitive abilities are atrocious, meatbag. In case you haven't noticed, you are in no position to bargain."

I grit my teeth, but say nothing.

"[Command] Toss your weapon to me."

I hesitate a moment before obeying. My lightsaber clatters to the dirt, several inches from the droid. It nods, reaches into its cloak and throws something near my boots. My eyes widen. Dread fills my soul.

Force collar.

"[Command] On your knees. Restrain yourself."

I swallow. Slowly...so slowly, my legs bend. The droid stares impassively as I crawl towards them. Like a mongrel. One hand touches the cold metal. The other makes a fist. Seconds go by as I dig my fingers deep into the yielding soil.

"[Query] Well, what are you waiting for meatbag?"

I flick my wrist.

Filth spatters across the droid's ocular sensors. It emits a binaric spurt of outrage. The trigger hand twitches, but the distraction has given me a split second opening. I thrust my remaining hand out.

The shockwave splits earth and shatters woods. Market stalls collapse like poorly assembled doll houses. My quarry crashes with a grind of protesting metal. Its blaster falls limply to the ground.

The hostage scampers away screaming. Good. I lurch forward, intent on ending the contest quickly.

It is three steps before I feel the monofilament wire against my boot. A puff of gas erupts from the ground. I only have a second to feel pain before numbness envelopes me. I cannot move. I _cannot._

I look down.

My legs have been encased within sharp tendrils of rock and ice. Carbonite mine. Very effective.

My captor growls binaric curses while lumbering back to its feet. It retrieves the blaster and unclips the cattle prod buckled at its hip. I thrust another blast at the assassin but the aim is poor. The droid shudders as the shockwave clips its shoulder. Then it is on me. The cattle prod comes down like a hammer.

Nerves alight in agony. Brain signals misfire. My body jerks and twists as pain envelopes my world. Someone is screaming. It takes several seconds for me to register the voice as my own.

"[Insult] Stupid meatbag," the assassin growls. It soaks in my howls as wisps of smoke curl in the air.

The rod of torment is finally withdrawn. I sag, coughing and wheezing. My frozen legs suspend me like a puppet. Everything is black, speckled with splotches of red. I blink furiously, trying to shake the after images. Then I see it. The Force collar. It is descending upon my neck like a maw. Numbing my senses with its deadening kiss.

My mouth opens to scream. Too late. Cold iron clasps pale flesh.

Experiencing disconnect from the well of infinity is horrible. There are no words to describe the agony, the sheer _terror_ of that moment. The world becomes a hellish swash of dull colours. Everything is cold, heavy... _lifeless_. My soul is devoid of feeling, as if most of it was sucked into a singularity.

I have been maimed. I have had essential organs ruptured. It all out pales in comparison to this utter despair. Withdrawal, but infinitely worse.

"Force, just kill me. Kill me now," I croak, hanging my head. The droid makes that wretched noise that passes for laughter.

Something catches my eye. Gold. A flash of gold. The colour of salvation. I look up blearily.

A lithe feminine figure leaps at my captor. She lands a kick onto its metal chest then somersaults, her distinctive lekku arcing like ribbons. The droid staggers, recovers, and draws its blaster. Ten meters. No cover. Impossible to miss.

Shot one goes wide, a last second pirouette spoils the attempt. Shot two - miss, body contortion. Shot three - not even close. And another, another, _another_. The droid is an unparalleled marksman but its quarry is slicker than an eel. Every movement is an art form. Each step is perfection personified.

The newcomer spins away from a headshot, ducks another and leaps. I hear the telltale thrum of a lightsaber igniting. The blade crashes straight into the droids neck. Actinic sparks erupt from the impact and it collapses.

The golden Twi'lek scoops up my weapon and rushes towards me. She cuts the Force collar from my neck. I gasp. Light and warmth flood back into my body like the sweetest nectar. I can feel the Force again, the well of its infinite potential touching my soul.

It is transcendent.

"Mysteel," I rumble. "I am glad to see you."

"Who isn't?"

The strain in her voice betrays her attempt at levity. It is very rare to see Mysteel without a smile. This is one such time. Her beautiful sapphire eyes travel to the carbonite trapping my legs.

"Need help with that?"

"No, just give me a moment."

My hand falls on the carbonite. I close my eyes and concentrate. The rock begins to shiver with protest. Within moments it shatters, shards whipping wildly in outrage. Nodding, I test my legs. The numbness and wracking pain has subsided. Mysteel walks up and hands back my lightsaber.

"Let's go," she urges "If that thing is here, it means-"

A creaking groan of hydraulics gets our attention. The droid is up. It twitches, aggravated but not injured. In truth its personal shielding has absorbed the worst of the blow. But the mechanism is blown and the aftershock only temporarily locked its motor functions.

"[Expletive] Error, file not found." the assassin growls. It begins tapping something into its wrist. More traps. I bare my teeth and ignite my lightsaber. No more tricks.

Mysteel grabs my arm before I can take a step.

"There's no time for that! Listen!"

I turn my head warily. Nothing. Nothing beyond the distant echoes of wailing children. Wait, no...she's right. A keening drone, the pitch escalating every second. The sound is like swarm of angry insects. Or flies scouring a corpse. Where is it coming from? The sky? Or maybe...

"There!" Mysteel points to a canopy of trees. My eyes narrow. I see something. A black and bulbous object rustling amongst the leaves. Malevolence bleeds from its movements. The foliage intensifies its shivering. Then it bursts out, like a parasite escaping its cocoon.

"Force preserve us," whispers Mysteel. Her lekku curl reflexively.

The thing is repulsive. Red multifaceted eyes squint from a bulging cranium. Metallic tentacles slaver from its undercarriage, whipping wildly, eager to impale.

"Predator Drones," I mutter. Hunters. Exterminators. Another perverse invention of the droid's master.

More of them are emerging from the foliage. Their needle sharp sensors are chittering like insects. Laser sights pockmark our clothing with angry welts, locking onto our heat signatures. I feel an old sensation, one that I thought expunged long ago.

Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.

Mysteel's hand tightens on my shoulder.

"Run," She croaks. "Run!"

We begin to flee.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _3 weeks, 9 hours, 23 minutes, 7 seconds before the Triumph_

The door splinters as I crash through it. Between me and my companion, we have destroyed six of them. The pain is jarring but there no time to pause. A drone hovers in front of us. Waiting. Our escape trajectories have become predictable.

It lashes out with an armoured tentacle. The speed of its attack is impressive. It wraps around Mysteel's arm before she can twist away. Electric feedback pulses from the ribbed metal. She cries out in pain.

My lightsaber shears the drone in two. It hovers momentarily. Part of its faceplate sloughs off like melting wax. Then it sputters and dies.

"Can you still move?"

She nods, struggling to stand. I grab my companion beneath the arm and haul her back into motion.

Another drone, another kill. We had hoped to outrun them, hide from them. It is no use. The vile machines intercept us at every corner. Salvos of plasma scour our trail like hellfire.

The market is in chaos. Bystanders are running amok like a wild herd, trampling each other into yielding soil. We leap over squalling Miralian children, shove a shrieking Cerean into a stack of rugs and crash through a stall filled with priceless ceramics. Curses are hurled at us with every step but we are deaf to the pandemonium. Distantly, I hear the chitter of angry drones. They have lost sight of us for the moment but it is only a matter of time.

I spy a narrow alleyway. The entrance is clogged by broken machine parts and rotting wood. It is dark though. No civilians. Hard for our trackers to pass through.

"Through here,"

We swerve widely to the right. Mysteel slips through the barricade with little effort. My bulk makes the experience much more unpleasant. The passage is tight, claustrophobic. I hear the distinctive buzz of our pursuers nearby. I look out from the rubble. Strobe lights flicker across the ground frantically, randomly.

We press against the wall, hoping against hope.

Their search continues for several gut wrenching seconds. Gradually, the thrum of engines diminishes. I sigh. We take the brief respite to catch our breath.

"Damn it all," Mysteel gasps. She braces her hands on shaking knees. "He found us. He _found_ us! How could he track our scent?"

I understand her apprehension, her _fear_. Revan is coming. Coming to take us down. To kill us.

It is flattering in a way, for our defection to warrant such attention. The council have sent their best for the hunt. This attack is not a token gesture of an Order spurned but their full wrath made manifest.

There is a common adage oft repeated amongst my former brothers and sisters. _If a mission is important, send a Knight. If it is critical, send a Master. When failure is simply not an option, send Revan._

"Don't think about that right now." I grunt between breathes "We're too exposed here. We need to get underground."

The streets are empty for the moment, but that could be a prelude to an ambush. I keep an eye on the rooftops for any sign of movement. "Pergatus Station," Mysteel says as I scan. She points vaguely northwest. "It links to the sewage system. Drones can't maneuver well down there."

"Too far. Too much open ground." Distantly I hear the droning buzz return. I try to ignore the sound as my mind races through the landmarks of the region.

"Morad Yard." I suggest out loud.

"The construction site?"

I nod. "Less than two kilometers. There is a service tunnel that should connect to larger arcologies."

Mysteel thinks then nods. We cross through the alley and out the other end. Warily I check the corners for our pursuers. All clear.

I signal with my hand to proceed. The streets are quieter now, with only the flutter of torn tarps to signal the carnage unleashed. A light rain has started to fall, mingling soot and blood. We crouch low, slipping from shadow to shadow, barely daring to breath.


	7. Chapter 2 - The Encounter

_Author's Notes:_

 _Chapter 2 is here. As always, feedback is appreciated. Thanks!_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 2**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _3 weeks, 9 hours, 8 minutes, 14 seconds before the Triumph_

The construction site looks abandoned. It is a simple matter to climb over the front fence and into the jungle of concrete and metal. Skeletal frames of unfinished monuments jut out amongst us. From time to time, red pipes snake across the floor, belching steam.

"What is this place?" Mysteel wonders aloud. She points to stacks of metal pipes, concrete and sacks of cement. Behind them, rows of transparent tanks froth with murky liquid. Stamped signs hanging on their tripods read 'Property of Czerka Corporation'.

"Most likely an unfinished fuel refinery," I remark. My body remains tense. Scaffolding creaks mournfully as the wind howls. It sounds like a warning. A calm before the storm.

"There," Mysteel whispers after a few moments. She points to a set of stairs leading to the tunnel. We descend and see the entrance is barred by heavy metal gates. The arch is rimed with rust and mildew. Cool dark blackness beckons beyond. It is the most welcoming sight I've seen in a while. We pad near the threshold.

There it is again. The dread. My otherworldly senses are trying to alert me. Trying to warn me of an unseen danger. I look around. Ground, walls, gates. Nothing visible...

Wait. The walls. _The walls_! They are emanating an energy signature. Very faint, but detectable.

I stop my approach, grabbing Mysteel by the shoulder before she can fall into the trap.

"Hold! Something's not right."

"Wha-"

Too late. I hear the telltale whine of thermo detonators arming.

The inferno throws us several meters high and thudding back to ground level. The concussive force is painful but the heat is excruciating. Excruciating like touching a miniature sun. Clothing smokes and molders. Skin crisps and burns.

I roll onto my back, groaning. The world is a riot of colours and sound. Nothing makes sense. I feel blood pounding through my temples. Every breath feels like a searing dagger through the lungs. Aftershock.

Mysteel is shaking me, trying to slap me out of my torpor, trying to pat out the residual flames. I force myself onto my feet. My eyes focus once more. Realization makes my heart sinks. The tunnel has collapsed but that is not the worst of it.

Dark shadows descend upon us. It is our tormentors. They encircle our position, chanting their obscene cant. Targeting lasers flare angrily.

"Bastards," I growl. I count six of the repulsive things. Manageable in normal circumstances but our injuries are grievous.

"This is it then," Mysteel sighs. She sounds bitter but not defeated. My companion throws her hands out wide, shouting to the skies.

"What are you waiting for, Rev? You have us dead to rights! Come out! At least have the decency to look us in the eye when you kill us!"

There is no response. Just the endless hissing of soulless abominations.

"Fine then," she says bitterly. We share a look and nod in understanding. No quarter taken or given.

Our blades ignite.

The storm is unleashed. Plasma bursts, torrents of them are vomited from the sky. For a moment, it looks like the heavens are raining blood.

We become swathes of gold and purple, swiping wildly over a crimson canvas. Blades riposte and parry, straining muscle to new heights of alacrity. Salvos are beaten back, sent spitting into the ground or knocked howling back into the sky. We become the moment. Waves upon waves of fury smash against us, but we hold the line.

I hear a muffled cry and turn fractionally. A plasma shot has scorched Mysteel's leg but she bites down to pain and keeps her furious rhythm. My inattention costs me a shot to the arm. My lightsaber falters, almost allowing another barrage to impale my chest.

"We can't keep this up," she gasps.

"Neither can they," I grunt. I point to the belching stacks of smoke jetting out of the drone's exhausts. "They're close to overheating. Just hold out a bit more."

My companion nods, sweat pouring down her brow.

Seconds pass. The impasse gradually tips in our enemy's favor as more shots get through. I grit my teeth and fight on. Adrenaline pumps, numbing the lactic acid burning in my muscles. Forcing just a bit more speed to keep death at bay. A defiant cliff face screaming against entropy.

None shall pass. _None not pass!_

Mysteel redirects a shot perfectly. It strikes the attacker's undercarriage, the weakest plating. Coolant tanks spark and explode. The machine shrieks down to earth like a tiny comet. It explodes. A mushroom cloud blooms out in a conflagration of metal. We scatter to avoid the whipping debris.

The surviving drones emit binary spurts of outrage. They are angry. I see one approach out of the corner of my eye. Something metallic emerges near its port nacelle. Instinct makes me leap to one side just as the particle whip crashes down. It splits earth, flash heats sand to glass. I roll then break into a run, scrambling to find cover.

Two drones pursue me. They unload salvo after salvo of punishing plasma fire as I flee. Chunks of cement are blown off from balconies, bulldozers are reduced to slag. I plough on, one arm above my head, barely able to keep ahead of the onslaught. One of the buildings catches my eye. It looks complete, lined with brick and reinforced metal bracings. I pivot to the right and hurl myself through the closest window. Wheezing, I scramble behind a set of metal crates.

The drones outside fire blindly, puncturing holes into brickwork. The building shudders in agony at the onslaught. Rubble thuds down on my shoulders. I keep my back pressed to the crates, blinking rapidly as dust clouds clog my lungs. My cover is crumbling. Entire mouthfuls of it have been chewed off by their ravenous weapons. It is only seconds before I meet the same fate.

Suddenly the barrage diminishes. I hear the whine of plasma venting. Overheating.

The window of opportunity is enough. I point two fingers at a mountain of broken rubble. Chunks of masonry hover up with a groan of protest. I gauge the distance and hurl my hand in an overhand gesture.

A wall of rock pelts the drones in a miniature meteor shower. Shards ricochet wildly, denting amour, puncturing holes. Several rattle into air turbines. The drones shudder as their plating is flensed from their bodies. One emits a strange coughing sound. The other begins venting black smoke. The hail passes but the damage is done. They jerk for several seconds like marionette dolls then collapse into the ground, circuits sparking.

I rise tentatively, wiping dust and sweat from my brow. An eerie quiet has descended amidst the carnage. Mysteel is nowhere to be seen. That is worrying. I take a shuddering breath and walk out the ruined building.

It is only when passing the chewed-up wall that I hear a faint whirring.

I twist instinctively. A drone is perched on the top of a broken pipe like a vulture. It leaps, tentacles slicing in a frenzy. I bring my lightsaber up to block. Too slow. Pain flares as it rakes me on the shoulder. Blood spurts out, red and vivid.

I try to stagger away but the drone pursues like a bloodhound. It looks bulkier than the rest. Retrofitted for close combat. Tentacles crackle with lightning, stabbing and slicing at flesh in a metal dervish. It is fast. Horrifically so. Muscle memory kicks in, replacing cold calculation. My blade sparks and spits like boiling cooking oil, barely holding the storm at bay.

A mistimed parry leaves me overbalanced, vulnerable. The drone leaps in, mandibles clacking. I dodge a disemboweling strike only to receive a stinging slash to the thigh. My stance falters.

The drone presses in. It senses blood. Weakness. More strikes slip through my defenses, puncturing skin, exposing muscle. My body begins to resemble an anatomical diagram. Another thrust. Directed to my face. I grab the thicket of blades before they can gouge out my eyes.

Pain jolts through every nerve in my body from the electric feedback. Teeth shatter from convulsions. I reel back, clutching my scorched hand. The drone's thrusters flare. It charges me like a wild Rancor. There is a sickening thud, the crack of metal on bone. I fall onto my back, choking blood. My blade clatters to the ground.

My tormentor is on top of me, blurting binaric cant. Tentacles grapple my arms, hauling me upright. Mandibles spit scalding oil against my face. I struggle weakly, twisting from side to side against the inevitable. It is no use. Against a machine's infinite endurance, the flesh is weak. Darkness closes in.

"Duck!"

My head obeys before properly registering the significance. Mysteel crashes into the drone. They tumble and roll several meters, a riot of thrashing limbs. Mysteel manages to slip on top. She plants her blade through one of its bulbous ocular lenses. The wretched thing emits a screech. It flounders, flops then falls still.

I struggle to my feet and give her a nod of gratitude. Mysteel doesn't see it. She is too busy trying to pull the lightsaber still embedded in the drone's faceplate.

"Damn it, not again," she groans. One of the tentacles twitch.

"Look out!"

Too late. A talon stabs into the meat of her shoulder. Mysteel shrieks. Electric discharge courses through her body. I hear gibbering nonsense behind her, the death throes of a machine too stubborn to die. Mysteel yanks her lightsaber free. She turns and slices the drones faceplate off. Clean off. A half melted motherboard sparks and sloughs to the ground. The machine goes limp. The tentacle slides off her shoulder. Dead. Finally.

Mysteel collapses in convulsions. I trudge towards her to offer aid.

Cold metal pricks the back of my head. I freeze. A harsh blurt of laughter chills my soul.

"[Mockery] That was amusing meatbag. But it is all you get."

I bite my lip, resisting the urge to scream, to lash out in fury. So close. _So close._ I could practically smell the free air. Or perhaps that was just arrogance. The wishful thinking of a fool who should never have attempted this endeavour in the first place.

"[Command] Turn around. Slowly."

I grudgingly shuffle to face the assassin, arms raised. My eyes stare down the barrel of a plasma rifle. Dead to rights. The assassin's ocular implants flare with deadly intent. A twitch of its finger will leave me a smoking pile of sludge.

A calmness descends upon me. Acceptance. The act of defiance was futile, but sometimes defiance is all you have. I close my eyes and wait for the shot that will spray my brains across the ground.

"Stand down, Forty Seven."

That voice. So quiet, so in control. I both hoped and dreaded to hear it before the end.

I feel the muzzle of the rifle being reluctantly withdrawn.

"[Compliance] As you wish…meatbag."

"Look at me, Exon." says the voice.

I obey Revan's command.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _3 weeks, 8 hours, 54 minutes, 31 seconds before the Triumph_

Let me tell you what I know about Revan.

Few are as knowledgeable on the subject although I flatter myself in thinking so. Truthfully, my knowledge of the man would be less than a brush stroke of the whole picture.

His origins are completely obscured. The majority of his exploits are sealed behind classified archives and obfuscation. For every achievement I've heard in his short career, ten more will remain unsung. Such is his way.

What I do know is that I have never met someone so singular, so driven. If he has oathed himself to a task, it will be completed. No matter how trivial. No matter how impossible. Vandar said it best.

 _If he has decided to save you, you will be saved. If execution is his intent, you are dead. If the crime is beyond forgiveness, pray. Pray that death takes you first because Revan will punish you. He will punish you so hard, your unborn children will be paying him reparations._

From a distance, you could think of him as human. Up close, you realize how inadequate that categorization is. Pale skin frames a somber face, sculpted like a statue of mournful antiquity. His hair is black, black like a widow's shawl. The effect is cadaverous, reminiscent of staring at the subject of an open casket.

Sand and grime cakes the edges of a rough-spun robe. Practical but unremarkable. Nothing to denote rank or victories. Many of the Order succumb to pride, embellishing their clothing with laurels and chaste silver. An artificial bearing of nobility. Not this one. His majesty is of a different magnitude, one derived from countless campaign experience and grueling sacrifice.

Then there is his eyes. So intense, so perceptive. They reflect a soul that has witnessed the abyss and experienced reality in all its cruel and infinite malice. To bear his scrutiny is to have every fiber of your being judged. Nothing escapes that gaze. It sucks secrets from its victim as easily as a leech sucks blood.

He walks towards me. His gait is careful, considered, a demonstration of control. I hold no illusions at how futile our attempts of resistance were. Every aspect of this exodus was predicted and accounted for. This encounter was just another cog in his plan. Nothing is ever done on a whim.

"Brother."

I say the word calmly. In truth, a tumult of emotions rumbles in my gut. Relief, dismay...fear.

"Oathbreaker," he replies.

The word makes me wince. Necessity has numbed my capacity to feel shame. Yet that damn label still manages to stir regret. Out of the corner of my eye, I see poor Mysteel being cuffed and collared by Revan's wretched droid.

"I'm surprised that the council sent you, given our past history."

"It took a lot of convincing."

I stare at him. Was his loathing for our action so deep that he personally had to swing the sword of execution?

"What do you want, Revan?" I ask eventually.

"Answers." He takes a step forwards. I instinctively back away and he halts. "I want to know why you have forsaken the Order, Exon. Why did you and Mysteel betray me?"

"No, not you," I croak. "We would never betray you."

His dark eyes bore into me, sifting through my voice for deception.

"What then?"

"Isn't it obvious?" My voice is incredulous. "Atris is mad. The High Council is scarcely better."

"They are trying to enact reformations," he says evenly.

"They are ruining the Order's _soul_ ," I retort. Bile fills my throat with every word. "You know what they're doing don't you?"

"I've heard rumors."

"Rumors." I laugh, choking out the word. "Oh they are much more than that. Atris is rounding us up, imprisoning us. Everyone she considers a radical or threat to her position. Dissension is punished. None are allowed to argue against her 'puritan values'. Outrage is being smothered under the guise of heresy."

"Precautions," he states calmly. "The last thing we need is another civil war. Exar Kun's shadow still looms deep."

"Exar Kun." I spit the name out like a curse. "Force, it always comes back to him doesn't it? The High Council thinks everyone of us is an Exar Kun in the making. One misstep and we will end up like that thrice damned traitor."

"The new guidelines have merit," Revan argues. The fervor in his voice is unmistakable. He truly believes what he says. "We need more oversight. Too many Knights have forgotten how to exercise restraint."

"Not like _this_ ," I snap. "Not when we are berated and brought to heel for simply speaking our minds." My fists clench. "I've known Knights who are punished with disjunction for refusing mind probes. _Disjunction_ , Revan! Tell me that isn't the sign of a tyrant."

Revan stares at me motionless. I take a breathe, letting my anger subside.

"This paranoia," I continue. "It poisons the very air we breathe. Atris has infected us all with her madness. We glance at our backs every day, wondering when her agents will brand us as traitors for simply condemning her conduct. It is no way to live."

I study Revan's face. Looking for a clue that my words have elicited a shred of empathy. His face remains stony. Unreadable.

"Surrender now and I guarantee you and the other traitor a fair trial," he says tonelessly. "You have my word."

My shoulders sag. It is no use. My words haven fallen on deaf ears.

"We were never brothers, were we?" I ask bitterly. "I was foolish to believe otherwise."

"You're wrong, Exon." He points to the lightsaber belted to my side. "I forged that blade for you. What is that if not a symbol of our brotherhood?"

I look away, not knowing what to say. He takes a step closer, sensing my defeat. A hand reaches out to grasp my shoulder.

"Let's go, Exon. I will help you and Mysteel get through this."

I roar and butt my head into his.

Revan clutches his face, dazed. I reach out. The familiar weight of my lightsaber slaps into my palm and flares to life as he staggers back. I rush forwards, snarling. Too slow. Revan ducks the thrust and sweeps my feet from under me. He rolls clear and ignites his own blade as I clamber back up. We glare at each other, circling.

"Make no mistake _traitor_ ," he growls. "There is no coming back from this."

He lunges at me. I brace myself. Stance wide. Guard up.


	8. Chapter 3 - The Battle

_**Chapter 3**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _3 weeks, 8 hours, 50 minutes, 26 seconds before the Triumph_

Blades hammer at one another, lethal blows fuelled with the weight of bitterness. Each jarring impacts sends shudders down our spines.

Our styles are a study in contrasts. Revan is elegant. His strikes are honed with the same precision a sculptor would chip at stone. I am an attrition fighter. In war, I am the shield in my brother's blind spot, the anchor of every battle line. I lack anything resembling subtlety. But stamina and sheer stubbornness have a lot to be recommended.

His blade slashes with precise figure of eight strokes. I block and parry two handed, our lightsabers screaming with disruptor light. Each of his strikes is bruising, knocking my feet back step by step. Rubble explodes from Force aftershocks.

Revan's commits a mistake. His boot slips in a patch of dirt as he thrusts. I see him stumble, overreach. A rare opening. I kick out, aiming for his head. Nothing. His body is already pivoting out of reach.

A feint.

My balance is thrown off. I curse. He punches out at my vulnerable chest, palms extended. The Force sends me hurtling up like a ballistic missile. My body crashes into nearby scaffolding, metal pipes and wood spilling in all directions. A heavy layer of sawdust coats my skin. I struggle to my feet, spitting. Knives of pain stab my lungs with each breath.

Revan thumps alongside me. Dark eyes bore into my soul with bitter recrimination.

"We could have solved this," he growls. I barely get my guard up as his blade comes crashing in.

"You could have shared your grievances with me. I would have stood by your side when you made your case."

I do not reply. Ever iota of my attention is focused on staying alive. I feel the tremors of fatigue build in my muscles. My energy is almost spent. Sacrificed in avoiding this very confrontation.

Revan shows no signs of tiring. His onslaught continues with brutal arcs to head, neck and thigh. Cunning attacks, all wrought from different angles. Testing my reach. Waiting for weakness. I block each attack stoically, feet planted wide. Rain hammers down my skin like tiny needles. Thunder peals from the sky. The heavens are weeping in anguish.

"I will not let your heresy spread any further," Revan growls. Blow by blow, he pushes me back. My head bobs and weaves with the rhythm of combat. Sheer intransigence keeps me alive.

"One way or another, the Order will be healed. I will not allow it to slide into extinction."

"You can't stop it," I snap. The retort earns me a vicious overhand strike. I dodge, barely, and the lightsaber gouges through a water pipe. Bilious liquid spurts out, soaking our robes.

"Even if every Knight sacrifices themselves on Atris' altar, it will not be enough." My movements feel heavy as I say the words. "You said it yourself. There are worse things out there than heresy. Mandalore. Raithe. The Reborn."

Revan doesn't answer with words. His lightsaber shrieks at my neck. I lean back, barely avoiding decapitation before lumbering forwards with an attack of my own. Too slow. Revan is countering even as I thrust. His blade spoils my aim. A knee comes out and snaps my jaw with a _crunch_. Bones crack. Blood spurts out where I bit my own tongue.

My body crumples. I try to rise, to drag myself away. It is useless. My legs feel like sacks of cement. Revan looks down at me as I paw in the muck like a newborn. His glare is cold. Imperious.

"Yield, traitor."

I meet his glare with swollen eyes. For a moment I do nothing but rasp. Then I smile through bloody teeth.

I throw my lightsaber.

Revan leaps to one side but I am not aiming for him. The blade spins left, trailing violet arcs. Forty Seven snaps its head up. Its implants flare with comprehension as it computes the trajectory. The droid tries to push the hostage away.

Too late.

My aim is perfect. It slices Mysteel's collar, separating metal without singeing flesh. Her eyes open, sapphires as clear as the open sky. The assassin tries to subdue her with a shot to the shoulder. She angles her wrists forwards. The chains snap with a spark of energy discharge. The assassin fires again but Mysteel is faster. She ducks, rolls and snatches the lightsaber from its belt. Her blade is ignited before the droid can even register outrage.

Mysteel decapitates it in one swift brutal motion.

The droid's head bounces several meters, gibbering binary. Its bloodshot implants flare sullenly before guttering out. Mysteel spins, preparing to redirect her ire.

Revan's fist catches her straight in the face.

She staggers, floundering to one knee. Revan steps forward but Mysteel slashes out unexpectedly. Her blade skewers the meat of his left arm. A grunt. Mysteel somersaults, catching Revan on the jaw with a _crack_. He staggers back, panting for breath.

"Mysteel," he lisps. Blood gushes out from his mouth. "I knew your roots were weak. Just like your sister."

My companion looks pained by the accusation. I rise to my feet, watching the scene unfold.

"She said the Order was beyond saving," she replies bitterly. "I should have listened."

"You will join her in infamy now."

Mysteel let's out a cry of frustration as she attacks. It echoes across the sky, ringing with mourning and loss. I step forward instinctively to lend aid. Then I remember my lightsaber is nowhere to be seen. I curse silently.

Revan meets the attack head on, left hand hanging limply. Their blades crash together in a ballet of swipes and ripostes. Electric coronas erupt on each impact. Sparks spit with every stroke.

Mysteel is fast, fast like the lightning before its thunderclap. A stroke snaps through Revan's guard, singeing skin and cloak alike. She continues the onslaught, lashing out at the slightest opening. Revan endures the flurry one handed. A severe disadvantage.

"You could have joined us," Mysteel shouts. She bats away a thrust and ripostes. The blade almost impales Revan in the throat. The sky is howling. Rain hammers down the spinning combatants, washing away tears and blood.

The Twi'lek is impossibly graceful, twisting her blade like a contortionist twists limbs. Her attacks come from all angles, slashing at shins, neck then chest at irregular intervals.

"You could have been your own man! Not some lackey of a council that's burning the Republic to the ground!"

Revan ignores the words. Even on the back step he does not yield a single inch of ground. He parries and blocks the thrusts with the brutal discipline bred into his very bones. His sword-work is a demonstration of absolute efficiency. No movement is wasted. No parry is mistimed. In his strokes, I see the vindication of millennia's worth of gathered combat knowledge. The crumbling majesty of a once great Order.

Mysteel aims a thrust at Revan's heart. He raises his blade to parry but the Twi'lek snaps back like a snake. She pivots, spins into his blind spot and stabs. The blade goes through his robes. Clean through. I hear a roar of agony.

She tries to rear back for another strike but her lightsaber won't move. Her eyes widen.

Revan has clamped her arm under his left armpit. He snaps his head back, catching Mysteel's forehead with a sickening _crunch_. She reels, blinded by her own blood. Suddenly Mysteel is on the defense, her blade swinging desperately to meet Revan's renewed onslaught. His strokes are heavier, more brutal, driven by a purer fury. My companion blocks the hammer blows but her footwork is slipping. It is like fighting entropy itself.

The blade arcs back again like a reaper's scythe. Mysteel braces to block but the attack is a feint. He pirouettes the strike into a thrust. She twists awkwardly from rushed footwork and stumbles. Revan rams a fist into her gut. Mysteel gasps.

The contest is ended with a vicious elbow to her face.

My companion crumples to the ground, unconscious. Revan falls to one knee, clutching his left arm. Blood leaks from chest, neck and head. His dark eyes are clouded over with pain.

He is completely surprised when I collide into him.

The force of the impact hurls us both into the sodden mud. He tries to raise his lightsaber but I swat the weapon away with a meaty hand. Revan punishes my presumption with a brutal headbutt. Blood spurts. I respond with a hammer blow across the face.

Back and forth, on and on. Grunt, gasp, kick, curse, snarl. The duel has devolved into a brawl. We are two back alley rodents, brutal, unsophisticated, _wild_.

My fist jabs into the wound on his left arm. That causes a shout of agony. A moment of distraction. I turn, positioning myself behind him. A meaty arm locks around his neck into a chokehold. Revan twists wildly like a weasel, trying to imbalance me, trying to break the deadly embrace. His efforts are rewarded. I slip, falling onto my back, but my grasp is tenacious. The chokehold remains.

Revan begins to gasp and struggle. His legs flail like an upturned bantha. He beats my chest with his elbows, claws at my eyes with abandon. I drown out the pain and focus only on crushing his windpipe.

"Others will follow our example," I growl into his ear. "Even if you drag us back in chains, the exodus will not stop."

Revan's response is reduced to gurgles. Suddenly, he stops gouging and extends his free hand towards the broken droid. Something metallic creaks and mutters into his hand.

The cattle prod jabs between my legs.

I howl. Eyes clamp shut. Limbs spasms and loosens. Revan slips away, hacking for breath. I barely notice. All I can feel is pain. Pain, sweat, and blood. They crash together in a red symphony of agony. In the face of that torment, I am helpless. All I can do is groan. Groan and clutch the wound, hoping nothing is irrevocably damaged.

I almost, _almost_ prefer the Force collar.

A boot thumps on my heaving chest. I feel the searing heat of Revan's lightsaber pricking my throat.

"Exon," he rasps. "I officially declare you and Mysteel _Excommunatus Traitoris_. In resisting censure, you have forfeited any right to leniency. By the will of the council, I hereby-"

His voice is drowned out by a primal sound. Like nails screeching on a chalkboard. I open my eyes. Revan is convulsing. Lightning arcs are running across his body, scorching open wounds. His mouth is open but nothing comes out but smoke. Who is doing this? Who? It continues for several torturous seconds. Then he collapses, a smoldering ruin.

I stare wide-eyed trying to process what I just saw. A lightning attack. Someone had summoned the fury of the Force and flayed Revan. But who? Why? Shaking myself out of my stupor, I look around for the attacker. There is no obvious source but I do spy the glint of my lightsaber. It lies wedged into a wall amidst the sea of our vandalism.

I try to stand but my legs refuse to obey. Grunting, I crawl over to Revan and put two fingers to his neck. A weak pulse. I turn to my comrade. Mysteel lays curled in a fetal position, groaning. I want to check her injuries but the constant threat of an unseen danger is takes priority. With effort, I begin dragging my body towards my lightsaber.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _3 weeks, 8 hours, 39 minutes, 49 seconds before the Triumph_

It takes several minutes for me to retrieve it. By then I feel some sensation returning to my legs. I limp to my companion's prone form and sag to one knee. A quick inspection reveals some weapon burns, bone fractures, maybe a concussion. Nothing life threatening.

"Are you all right?" I slur, shaking her shoulder.

Her eyes open, unfocused. She rubs the back of her neck. "I-I think so. Force, what was that noise?"

"Not sure." I help her up to her feet. "But it seems like we have a guardian angel."

I point to Revan. He is stirring. Blood leaks freely from his side. The smell of charred meat is overpowering. Mysteel gasps. For a moment, the animosity is forgotten. She rushes over to him, concern etched on her face.

"Rev, you're bleeding. Let me-"

Revan shoves her prying hands away.

"B-Back. Get _back_ ," he snarls. Mysteel recoils, stung.

"It's over now, Rev," she says quietly. My companion stands up straight and takes a shuddering breath. "Let it end."

"She's right, brother." I limp slowly towards the pair, clutching my right arm. "Yield."

"Never. I will...n-never...yield _traitor_." My former brother struggles to stand. His muscles fail him. He collapses, wheezing through ruined lips.

"K-Kill...me now b-because I will never...give up. The...c-chase. There is n-nowhere in this galaxy, in...t-this _reality_ safe from...m-me."

He coughs up bloody spittle.

"I will...h-hunt both of you b-beyond the veil if I...h-have to."

I stare at him. Even through the blood and the agony, Revan's eyes remain undimmed. He holds my gaze, the Oathkeeper looking at the Oathbreaker.

"I believe you."

I take two steps forward. Mysteel blocks my path, shaking her head vehemently.

"No! Let's just go. Leave and pretend this never happened."

I stare straight into her sapphire eyes.

"You heard him, Mysteel. He won't give up. Even if the Order turns their gaze away, he will not. We will never have a moment's respite as long as he draws breath."

"We can't! We're not-"

"Not what?" I snap. "Traitors? Oathbreakers? Because that's _exactly_ what we are now. The moment we walked off temple grounds we were committed to this course."

"He's our _brother_ ,"

"He _was_ our brother. I'm not sure what he is now."

Mysteel's shoulders tremble as she agonizes over the cards fate has dealt us. Finally she turns away, unable to witness the deed. "Just…just make it quick."

I turn to my erstwhile brother. His wounds have soaked the dirt black and each breath is tortured, sucked through a reed. He regards us with a mixture of bitterness and resignation.

"So...t-this is it...then. Make s-sure your...blade s-strikes...true traitor."

I kneel next to his broken form and cradle his head to my chest. Despite what I said earlier, I still feel the frayed bonds of our kinship tugging at my soul.

"I'm sorry, brother. I truly hoped it would not end this way."

"Y-you are...no...brother. Of m-mine." He swallows a mouthful of blood but never lets his gaze waver from mine. I look to the hilt of my lightsaber. The blade he gifted to me as a symbol of our brotherhood. Killing him with it would go beyond the pale. Some boundaries should never be crossed.

"No," I growl. "Not like this."

I toss the lightsaber to the ground. Instead I wrap my hands around his neck and begin to squeeze.

Revan resists feebly. He paws at my hands and tries to claw at my eyes but they are token gestures. The last grasps of a man already sentenced to oblivion. I keep my vice firm, praying for the moment to pass. My victim's face turns blue. He reaches out with a hand to will my discarded weapon into his grasp. The lightsaber begins to crawl towards him at a glacial pace.

Mysteel foot stamps down on the weapon, dooming my brother's final chance of salvation. I look up. She is crying freely now but does not stop the inevitable from happening.

The last moments are agonizing. His body twitches in weak spasms as the blood circulation is finally cut off. His pulse stops. I hold on for a few more moments until I'm sure the deed is done. Revan's eyes are still open. Their accusing gaze never wavers from my face.

Mysteel collapses onto Revan's corpse, screaming like a banshee.

"What have we done? _Force,_ _what have we done?"_

She sobs, clutching the body like a life raft. I stare at the scene. My shoulders are trembling. My hands feel like dead weights. Nothing makes sense anymore. How did it come to this? How?

Pain and grief rushes into my chest. I throw myself to one side and begin retching. Then I roar out to the heavens. I curse the Atris, the Order, and the Republic. But most of all I curse myself. Rain soaks us to our very marrow, mingling with our tears. Every crack of thunder sounds like a howl of grief. Even the planet weeps for this tragedy. We stay rooted to scene of our most grievous sin, saying nothing.

"You two! Are you all right?"

The voice startles me. I whip my head to the source.

Three figures stand on an undamaged piece of scaffolding, twenty meters away. They are robed, hooded. Like Knights of the Order but something about their demeanor unsettles me. They leap down one after another and approach us openly.

At five meters I grab my lightsaber and ignite it.

"Keep back," I growl. The trio stops. The blade settles ominously at the middle figure, the leader. She speaks. The voice is young, feminine.

"Be at peace, we are not of the Order. We are not your enemy."

I keep my lightsaber raised. The speaker raises a hand and pulls back her hood. The face I see is kind, dignified. Tresses of long blonde hair tickle her shoulder as the cold wind blows over us. She brushes a locket away from grey-green eyes.

"Had we not intervened, you would be in chains already." The woman continues.

Understanding dawns upon me. "You were the ones who unleashed the fell powers." My voice is wary, accusatory even.

Her companion on her left chuckles.

"Fell powers? You Jedi and your dogma."

The voice is harsh, a man by the sound of it. It is saturated with the impertinence of youth.

"How did you find us?" Mysteel asks. She looks up, eyes red rimmed. Eyeshadow streaks down her cheeks.

The last figure stirs. Another female. "This world is our domain. Nothing of importance escapes our sight here."

"That and your pursuer caused enough ruckus to raise the dead," says the male. He unhoods himself. Pale amber eyes stare back at me. They are haughty, impetuous. His hair is sandy and unkempt but shorter than the first to unveil herself. The man saunters up to Revan, disdainful.

"I see the Jedi do not learn from their mistakes. They should know not to venture foot here anymore."

He spits at the body.

"Good riddance."

Anger rises in my gorge. I move up to confront him but the blonde woman backhands him first.

"Respect!" she snaps. "How many times do I have to beat it into you, brother? We do not stoop to our enemy's level."

They glare at each other. The younger man capitulates. He looks away, grumbling under his breath. She turns back to us with a bow of contrition.

"My brother often acts without thinking. Apologies."

"You still haven't told us who you are," I said warily.

"Desabel. Desabel Nox." She walks up to the last hooded figure and puts her hands on her shoulders. "This is Carmon."

The one named Carmon flips back her hood. Her face is round, expressive. Curly chestnut hair is tied into loose pigtails on either side of her face. Large brown eyes dart at both of us inquisitively. She meets my gaze with a slight smile and bows.

"Well met."

I return the nod warily. Desabel smiles and gestures to the youth she just slapped.

"And finally we have Manford. The boy lacks humility, it is true. I hope to rectify that in the future."

"I am no _boy,_ " Manford protests.

"Until you learn something approaching patience, that is all you will be," says Carmon sharply. Manford glares at her but keeps silent.

I look at their faces carefully. Something about their appearance niggles at the back of my brain. Revan would have seen it immediately but it takes me several moments. The resemblance in the curve to their noses, the jut of their chin.

"You called Manford 'brother'," I say carefully. "But that isn't just a term of fraternity, is it? You are siblings, all three of you."

"Perceptive." Desabel nods in approval. "Yes, we share blood. But that is not what truly unites us."

"You say this planet is yours. Where does your legitimacy come from?"

"The war of course." Desabel seems surprised by the question. She gives us a searching look. "When this planet rebelled, it was little more than a scattered rabble. Because of our parents, it is so much more."

I give them a blank look.

"Your parents?"

Carmon frowns.

"Surely you have heard of the Liberators of Corvaine?"

I shake my head. The trio looks at each other, murmuring.

"We just wanted to get away."

Their attention turns to Mysteel. She takes a shuddering breath and closes Revan's eyes. "We wanted to get away from it all. The hypocrisy, the tyranny. But not like this. Force, I never wanted _this_."

She begins to sob again. I put my hand on her quivering shoulder. "We fell out of favour with the Order's leadership," I explain. "A difference of principles. Now we are hunted."

"So we gathered," Desabel remarks. "Why come here though?"

"There are few places beyond the Order's reach. But we heard Corvaine has repelled sizeable Republic fleets since their rebellion. Even Jedi incursions."

Desabel eyes glances at her siblings before replying. "True enough."

"It took us a while, but we managed to find a black marketer who was willing to smuggle us through the blockade. For a hefty sum of credits of course."

My mouth twitches with distaste.

"You planned to find sanctuary," Carmon states. "Start a new life." I nod.

"We truly didn't think the Order would pursue us. Why would they? The Republic has turned a blind eye on this system for decades. But..." My voice trails off. I am too stricken with grief to finish the thought.

"Which enclave are you two from?" Manford asks into the silence. His eyes are narrowed with suspicion.

I meet his gaze without flinching. "The Throneworld. Coruscant."

"Ah," says Carmon. "That explains your ignorance. They like to keep their followers in the dark."

I do not know what to say about that. My attention turns back to Desabel.

"Your parents. They are important on this world?"

"Oh yes." Desabel looks proud of the fact. "They are living proof that the shackles of the Jedi can be cast off. After the war, they gained followers and birthed more. Now the populace venerate us as their guardians. The Echoes of Exar Kun."

My eyes narrow. "Kun is dead."

"Undoubtedly. But people don't get to choose the name bestowed upon them." Desabel gives her siblings a meaningful look.

"I've heard enough. I think their plight is worth our intervention. Thoughts?"

Carmon returns the look with a subtle nod. After a moment, Manford does the same.

"Then we are agreed," says Desabel. She goes to one knee and extends a hand to me. "You came looking for sanctuary on Corvaine. On behalf of the Liberators, I grant it. Will you accept our hospitality?"

"You would take in outcasts? Just like that?" I ask incredulously.

"Of course. We make it our business to collect misfits just like you," Manford says dryly.

Desabel turns to Manford with a rebuke but thinks better of it.

"My brother has the right of it. We are a sanctuary for Jedi and Sith alike. Those who cast off their old lives for a greater purpose."

A chill crawls down my spine at the mention of the Sith. My eyes narrow. I fight down the urge to rebuke them.

"What about the rebel government?" I ask instead. "Our escape caused a lot of damage. Will they have issue with you harboring fugitives?"

She chuckles. "For all intents and purposes, we _are_ the government."

I open my mouth to speak. Desabel raises a hand.

"All will be explained. But we must go now. The Order made a bold move. That is unexpected. We must confer with our parents about this development."

"And where one Knight comes, others will follow," Carmon adds ominously. "I would prefer not to deal with more of the vermin for now."

"Let them come," Manford growls. "I will enjoy testing my mettle against the false Order,"

"In due course," says Carmon. "Chain your anger, brother. When the time is right, the Silent King will summon us."

They stare at me, waiting. I stare back, although I do not truly see them. My mind still races with all that occurred. The invitation is enticing but so much of what I've seen and heard is repellent. Their use of the dark powers, their apparent acceptance of Sith in their ranks. Association with these people would bring corruption. Could I really stomach a further degradation of my soul?

For several seconds I say nothing. Then I glance down at my sobbing companion. I nod.

"Very well. We accept for now. But we make no promises or commitments."

The women smile and nod. Manford looks on with indifference.

Carmon kneels down and tries to pry Mysteel away from Revan's corpse. My companion shakes her away.

"I will not leave him here for carrion," she says through red rimmed eyes. "A Jedi deserves a proper burial."

Manford scoffs.

"We don't have time for this nonsense. Let his body feed the worms."

"No, she's right," Desabel declares. "We may hate the Order's hypocrisy but mother says the ritual is sacred. Honour must be observed."

She turns to me.

"We will give him a proper burial when the thunderstorms subside, but it may take days. Weeks even. The monsoons are starting and the planet is not accommodating."

Desabel bends down to help carry the body. I shake my head.

"I will do it."

"You are protective of him." Carmon notes. "Was he a close friend of yours?"

"No," I reply solemnly. "He was my brother."

* * *

 **Authors Notes:**

 _You killed Revan! You bastard! -everyone_

 _It does look pretty definitive doesn't it? But then, this would be a very short story if the protagonist died in the opening salvos. Rest assured, there is definitely more going on than meets the eye. In the meantime, feel free to speculate what just happened. As always, comments on the story are always appreciated. I'll try to get back to questions as soon as possible._

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _Guest chapter 8 . Dec 12_

 _Q: You killed Revan, you bastard! Revan isn't really dead (or if he is, he won't remain that way), right? My thoughts? He's entered into a Force healing trance like K'Kruhk in the 2003 Clone Wars (which is apparently not canon, despite not contradicting the 2008 Clone Wars series) when he fought against General Grievous._

 _A: That's a good theory! However, Exon would probably be able to tell and anybody who scrutinised the body as well. It's really close though._

 _Guest chapter 2 . Nov 26_

 _Q: So Atris is stirring up trouble. I want to see how that turns out._

 _A: Definitely. Her arc is pretty central to the entire plot of the story. She will definitely make her presence known._

 _Guest chapter 1 . Nov 25_

 _Q:_ _Mysteel is a fugitive now? That didn't take long._

 _A: Poor Mysteel, she just can't seem to catch a break. But then again, it always looked like she wouldn't fit in with the more conservative elements of the Order._

 _Guest chapter 2 . Nov 21_

 _Q: Would I do a story which involves the (surviving) characters to Revan becoming Darth Revan, and how his Sith Empire affects them, whether they live or die (or even become a part of it)?_

 _A: This would definitely be a story in the far future but I would definitely like to do one regarding the catastrophic fallout from that event. There is still a lot of ground to cover before we get to it. I will say this about Fear These Knights. When the story is finished, there will be clear reactions about that event, the catalysts and how it affects everyone in Revan's orbit. Sorry if I'm being vague, but I like to keep my cards close to my chest._


	9. Chapter 4 - The Heretics

**_Chapter 4_**

 ** _Time check:_** _3 weeks, 2 hours, 34 minutes, 12 seconds before the Triumph_

"I feel your pain, brother. It will subside. Give it time."

The words bring me out of my meditation. The hull around me is a shadow filled cave. Red lights bleeds across the deck, tingeing the gunmetal with ominous shadows. I see Carmon staring at me from across her seat harness. She looks positively ghoulish in this light but her expression is one of concern.

"I'm fine," I assure her. "The turbulence is…discomforting."

That is not a lie. Even swaddled in layers of impact webbing, I can feel the vicious punishment being unleashed by the tempest outside. The gunship is trembling. Its agony is reflected in the pop of bolt screws and the scream of twisting metal.

The woman shakes her head. "That is not what I meant. The ghost of your brother's death haunts you."

Her words make my mouth twitch. In my mind's eye, I relive the moment over and over again. Revan's eyes bore into me, unblinking. The sense of betrayal is palpable as the light of his soul slips away from the mortal coil. I glance over to Mysteel. She looks catatonic. No doubt plagued by the same specter of accusation. All attempts at conversation by our hosts have been rebuffed.

"Shock is normal," Carmon continues. "The first is always the hardest."

The implication in her words chills my blood.

"No, never again." I shake my head, as if the act itself will make it true. "If I live to see another century, I will not have the blood of another Knight on my hands."

"Impossible," she scoffs. "The High Council has you marked for death. Sooner or later, another zealot will stumble into your path and you will be forced to do what's necessary."

"Then let them finish it," I whisper quietly. "Let them finish what my brother started. It is a fitting end for a traitor."

"Hush." I feel her hand reach out and touch mine. "The High Council betrayed the ideals of the Order long before you had seditious thoughts. It is our duty to let them see the error of their ways."

The words ring hollow, but I appreciate her attempt to life my burden. We lapse into silence, feeling the howling gales rattling the gunship like a spoiled child. A crackle on the intercom catches my attention. It is Desabel.

"Carmon, how are things back there?"

"Deplorable, Dez," Carmon calls out. "A drug addled Ewok could fly this scrap heap better."

I hear a laugh. "We're approaching docking bay six. Have our guests ready to depart."

"Finally, I would kill someone for a stiff drink."

"You and me both."

The intercom falls silent. Carmon leaves her seat and stretches. "Well then, looks like our time in this purgatorial shit hole is finally over." She reaches out and presses a button on the overhead compartment. The metal bulkhead beside her head slides open to reveal armourglass. She turns to me with a smile.

"Here, come take a look. It will lift your spirits."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, don't fuss. Just come and see for yourself."

Warily, I unbuckle my impact webbing and walk over. I bend low and peer to where Carmon points. My eyes widen.

"Vandar's _balls_."

Through the glass, I see iron domes nestled on a diamond-shaped landmass. A _floating_ landmass. Each dome is a bastion in itself, bristling with ramparts and spoil-grey turrets. Complex runways spiral between their cavernous tunnels, linking the titanic structures like a metal circulatory system. At the nexus of this fortress is a huge tripartite tower, ridged with buttresses and interlocking support beams. Its size alone reminds me of the Capital ships soaring over the Throneworld's skies. Landing pads and lance batteries ridge the mountain monstrosity, forming a hexagonal ring of iron.

"A fortress," I breathe. "Your home is a sky fortress."

"Takes the breath away doesn't it?" Carmon asks proudly. I nod in mute reply.

Distantly, I hear the rumble of anti gravity engines, striving to keep this hulking edifice afloat. Somehow it does, and that makes this mobile wonder nothing less than a perfect amalgamation of form and function. It is hard not to feel impressed by the ingenuity. Yet all the marvel pales in comparison to what I see next.

"What…what is it that?"

I point to the top of the central tower. There is a light, a light fashioned like the emblem of the Holy Order. The glow is sublime. Chaste, silver and inviolate. It cuts through the miasma of fog and rain, guiding the ship like a moth to the flame.

"That?" Carmon echoes looking up. "That is our beacon. Every lighthouse needs a beacon."

"Lighthouse?"

"Corvaine's storms rarely stop." Carmon explains. "When the colony started, ships were always getting lost or blown off course. So the administration forced Czerka Corporation to build lighthouses. A series of sub orbital relays tasked with coordinating ship traffic through the interference. We chose this one to serve as our home. Our enclave if you will."

"An odd choice."

"Not as odd as you think," Carmon remarks. She leans on the bulkhead, arms crossed. "There was once an actual temple on this planet. But it's been abandoned."

I turn around, eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Why?"

Carmon shrugs. "Too many bad memories. Or so I've been told."

I want to press the issue but the pilot's intercom crackles to life again.

"Docking protocols engaged. This is it. We're home."

* * *

 ** _Time check:_** _3 weeks, 2 hours, 19 minutes, 41 seconds before the Triumph_

The gunship doors slide open to reveal a hangar bay. It is large and cavernous, like the maw of a sandworm. Bulky cargo lifters rumble across supply lanes, laden with metal crates. Crewmembers with bright orange vests weave between the trains, hauling luggage or directing incoming traffic with green torches.

Mysteel and I are led down the gunship's ramp. I catch a strange pattern as I step foot on the hangar deck. Some form of after-image, shining from above. I look up. Above me is a triumph of artistic ingenuity. Frames of silver and gems split the walls in breathtaking geometric shapes, dazzling the eye. Ornate panels cover the domed ceiling, painted with frescoes of events past. The Unification Wars. The Great Schism. The Hyperspace Wars. All captured in eerie exactitude.

"Amazing," I breathe.

"I'm glad you think so."

Desabel walks up beside me. "My parents said that before the Hundred Years War, all Jedi enclaves were works of art. Majestic palaces of crystal and gold. We wanted to recapture the grandeur."

I nod transfixed, too dumbstruck to reply. It is astounding. The gleaming images, the soaring arches _. Everything_. I have barely set foot into their enclave and been a witness to glory unmatched on the Throneworld. What wonders will be revealed when I reach its heart?

"What is this now, Desabel? I was not notified that we were receiving new recruits."

The voice is harsh, tinged with caustic suspicion. I look down and see a warrior approach. The head is unhooded, revealing a scarred face that is pale like a fish's belly. Ritual scars criss cross the skin in a ruin of puckered flesh. He exhibits all the symptoms of physical degradation from channeling manifest rage.

A Sith.

My hand involuntarily falls to my lightsaber. The newcomer notices the gesture. He lumbers closer, bleeding aggression. Yellow bloodshot eyes glare down from a hairless brow, unflinching, scrutinizing. The monster is at least fifteen stone, all muscle. I feel his fetid breathe against my skin. It stinks of spoiled meat.

"You smell of blood and deceit, human," the Sith growls. His jaundiced stare flicks between me and Mysteel, assessing our worth. "Who have you betrayed? Who _will_ you betray?"

Desabel places a warning hand on the man's shoulder.

"Enough of that, brother. These two are our guests and their wounds are still raw."

The expression on his face does not change. "Have they been interrogated yet?"

"Not necessary," Desabel replies. "They killed an Order Knight. We witnessed it firsthand and have the body to prove it."

The man finally turns to face her, an ominous mountain shifting on its axis. "Everyone has to be screened, Desabel. No exceptions."

"Brother, brother, brother," she chides. "I _outrank_ you. Or has our last bout in the practice cages made you senile?"

The warrior's nerveless face twitches. "You are not my superior."

"Oh but I am, brother. I am a Nox." She swaggers around him once, hands on hips. "My heritage is that of the Old Blood. What gutter trash did you sprout from? Some unholy union between a woman and a stained handkerchief?"

There is a sharp intake of breath. I see sweat dripping from Carmon's brow.

The newcomer remains immobile. Statuesque. Then his shredded lips twitch back, as if suspended by meat hooks. A grin. Sith never smile with anything approaching grace.

"The brass balls on you, Desabel."

He steps forwards and flings an arm around her neck. For a moment, it looks like the smaller warrior has been swallowed up by the void.

"Morivar," The tension evaporates with the embrace. She pats his back and steps away. "It's good to see you, you ugly bastard."

"Likewise."

"Do you know where my parents are?"

"In the Eyrie. Shall I inform them of your return?"

"No need, I can announce myself."

The brute turns and begins to skulk away. "The Nox name will not protect you forever, little sister," he calls back. "One day, you will have to step out of its shadow."

"You're right," Desabel calls out. "One day, I will be a ruler of my own enclave. Maybe I'll let you lick my boots then."

I hear a departing grunt of amusement. Desabel turns and blows a strand of hair from her face. "The belligerent. Always spoiling for a fight," she remarks.

Carmon laughs. "Letting him go without a beating? You're getting soft, sister."

"I've had my fill of punishing fools today." Desabel gives Manford a pointed look. His dour expression curdles even more.

"The brute is right, you know. We will need to rifle through their belongings, scan their transit codes."

"In due time." Desabel waves a hand. "Have our salvage collected and refreshments brought to the Eyrie. I will report our findings."

Manford scowls.

"I am no-"

"-errand boy," cuts in Desabel sharply. "Yes, yes we all know how important your time is, little lord." She turns her back to him. "Go then. I believe there is a earwig waiting for you to torment."

The youth skulks away with the petulance of a whipped dog. Desabel glances at her other sibling. "The girl is in no condition to be presented. Get her settled. I'll take Exon with me."

Carmon nods and takes my companion gently by the hand. "Mysteel was it? Let me get you out of those filthy clothes. Someone as pretty as you shouldn't look like a beggar."

Mysteel doesn't reply. She shuffles away quietly, offering no resistance. I watch them leave, a worried frown creasing my mouth.

"She will be safe. I promise," assures Desabel. She clips me on the shoulder. "Come, the Eyrie awaits."

* * *

 ** _Time check:_** _3 weeks, 2 hours, 15 minutes, 2 seconds before the Triumph_

The enclave is a shrine worshipping its own opulence. Everywhere we turn, I am assaulted with new heights of majesty.

Desabel guides me through corridors fit for an art gallery. Along its cloistered sides are paintings, skulls and statues from all cultures across the galaxy. Many of the statues are famous Jedi throughout the ages. Arca Jeth, noted Jedi Master. Odan-Urr, the venerable Keeper of Antiquities. Garon Jard, a founder of the Order.

There are plaques denoting weapons from the great Sith War, gilded statues dating back to the first settlers on Coruscant. Some items are so esoteric that I do not recognize their origin. The floors are no less impressive. A mosaic of marble tiles, etched with painstaking detail to resemble famous warriors in idealized heroism.

My eyes dart across every surface, soaking in the excess of wealth. Desabel barely seems to notice any of it. The glory of her temple has become stale through repetition.

"I'm sorry about what happened back there," she remarks. "If it's any consolation, all newcomers go through the same vetting process. You will be given all your belongings back after security does a quick scan."

I nod stiffly. Such scrutiny is to be expected. "What did you mean back there?" I ask. "About being Old Blood?"

"Surely you know of House Nox?"

I shake my head, stepping around a trio of droids in burnished gold. They are wiping grime from rune carved pillars with detached efficiency.

Desabel looks aggrieved. "It is one of the Elder Houses," she explains. "Through my father, I can trace my lineage back to the first recorded human nobles in Republic history. Our blood is as old as the Organas. Older perhaps."

I glance over to her, eyebrows raised. "Does that mean your father some kind of lord?"

"Some kind," she agrees.

As we talk, I catch glimpses of figures meditating within cloistered cells. Several robed men and women march past with the driven purpose of sentinels. Others are chatting or engaged in philosophical debates. Then there are the children. They laugh and play, dancing around the marble pillars in dizzying circles. All these sights brings back memories of the Throneworld.

"Is everybody here from another enclave?"

My host nods. "Disillusioned Knights mostly. Some Sith like Morivar who have seen the error of their ways."

Her words fill me with disquiet. So many. So _many_. The number of Knights that have turned from the Throneworld's light would make my brother weep. Rounding a corner, we come across a Cerean and Twi'lek locked in a passionate kiss. The Twi'lek inadvertently knocks over a statue as the Cerean straddles his waist. Bystanders laugh.

I stare at the scene, mouth agape. Desabel notices my discomfort.

"You look absolutely _scandalized_ , brother," she teases. "Does such open affection offend you?"

I do not reply. My attention has shifted to a couple on the far end of the corridor. One is a human female. Pregnant. She is shuffling awkwardly, one hand over her swollen belly. The male companion guides her by the hand with tender care. The implication of their union is staggering.

"Families," I choke out. "The Jedi in this enclave have _families_."

"Of course," says Desabel dryly. My continued shock seems to amuse her. "You didn't think my siblings and I were the exception, did you?"

The question catches me off guard. "I...I really don't know _what_ to think anymore."

"The first time is always the hardest as Carmon likes to say." She gestures to the end of the corridor. "We're almost there. You will have plenty of time to chide our behavior later."

For a long moment, I do nothing but stare. Stare at the heresy unfolding around me. And make no mistake. This _is_ heresy. An absolute dismissal of Order values. I should be disgusted. To my horror, I realize I am not.

I am...envious.

When I walk again, it is in a dreamlike torpor. For that is what it is. A dream. It has to be. It _has_ to.

As with many dreams, a part of me does not want it to end.

* * *

 ** _Time check:_** _3 weeks, 1 hour, 54 minutes, 2 seconds before the Triumph_

We ascend a winding staircase lavished with a crimson embroidered carpet and soft glowing lumens. Branches of heartwood curl and weave amongst the golden handlebars like a lover's caress. The name of Eyrie is well earned. By the time we reach the top, a thin sheen of sweat has soaked my chest.

We ascend into a throne room. A single lacquered table dominates the center, laden with platters of sweetmeats, fruit and cheeses. A golden chandelier glitters above, suffusing the air with warm halos. Rich lavender banners drape the walls, bellowing their magnificence with honour rolls stamped in gold. The northern face is transparent armorglass. I see the beacon light beyond, shining defiantly against raging entropy.

A man and woman occupy the far end of the table. The man is standing, back turned, hands clasped behind. His companion reclines on a carved throne, right leg over the left. One hand rests on a crystal armrest, the other hangs casually over the edge. I am reminded of an apex-feline at repose, gathering her strength before a hunt.

Desabel gives a polite cough. Both figures turn their attention to her.

"Dez, back from patrol already?" asks the man. He approaches us with the gait of an aristocrat. When he walks, it is with the expectation that reality itself will clear a path for him. He takes Desabel's hands but looks straight at me. "And with a new face in tow."

"Two, father." She kisses both of his cheeks. "We found them at Morad Yard. They were being pursued by a Knight."

Her father lets out a breath. "Truly? An Order Knight, here? They grow reckless."

"Too reckless. The Knight is dead. My companion killed him."

She leans in and whispers the details into his ear. Her father nods several times, a look of concern on his face. His features are sharp. Angular and surprisingly young. Black hair peppered with salt is slicked back into a widow's peak. Finally he straightens.

"You recovered the body I assume."

"It is being processed. Manford wanted to leave it for the maggots but I insisted we honour the body with funeral rites."

"Good. That is good, Dez." He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We must always respect the enemy. Without honour we are merely animals."

Dez bows once and turns back to face me.

"Exon has requested sanctuary from the Order."

"I see." The lord of the Eyrie turns. Sunken brown eyes scrutinize me from under a bony brow. Satisfied, he extends a ring studded hand and smiles. "Welcome, brother. It is always good to see a new face in our enclave."

I clasp the proffered hand. The skin is smooth. _All_ of his body is smooth, bereft of muscle definition with a chest that is bare and hairless. His robes are resplendent, grey silks woven with beaten gold. A noble indeed.

"Thank you for sheltering us, lord," I reply.

"Lord?" The man echoes. He gives her daughter a shrewd look. "Ah, I see Desabel has been boasting about her proud lineage."

His daughter looks at him innocently.

"In truth father, I would not mind if you called me 'Your Grace' from time to time."

The lord of the Eyrie chuckles and turns back to me. "Call me Santagar. I will have none of this lord nonsense in my own home."

"As you say," I reply. Santagar clasps me by the shoulder and guides me towards his companion. "Ah, but where are my manners? Allow me to introduce you to my beautiful wife."

We approach. The lady rises with effortless grace. Pale white silks shiver with unearthly luminescence. Santagar steps close and whispers something into her ear. I hear the word 'Throneworld' once or twice. When he is finished, the woman walks towards me. Smooth powdered hands reach out to take mine. "Greetings. Be welcome in our hearth and home."

"Thank you my lady," I say courteously. The lady smiles, exposing pearly white teeth. Her face has the quality of priceless porcelain. Pale blonde locks fall lazily across her head, tied together in a loose bun. An aquiline nose rests gracefully above pale lips.

"Please, call me Alivia."

"Alivia then, thank you."

My gaze unconsciously falls to her belly. It is swollen, heavy with child.

"Soon, two weeks at most," she says. Her green eyes glitter with amusement. "You are welcome to attend the main event."

I realize I've been staring too long. I turn away, feeling my cheeks redden. Santagar laughs it off. He puts a friendly arm over my shoulder.

"So, Dez has shown you our fiefdom."

"Only a sliver."

"What do you make of it?"

I pick my words carefully. "It is...impressive."

"Heretical you mean?" Santagar smiles. "Yes I know how it looks, especially to a newcomer straight from the Order's teat."

He ambles over to the table and pours himself a goblet of wine.

"But tell me," he calls out. "Does the sight of Jedi mingling so provocatively offend you?"

I hesitate. The man is testing me, trying to gauge if I am a lickspittle or a person of principles. I have never been known for subtlety.

"It shocks me, sir. To see such a lack of restraint," I say bluntly. "Having intimate relations, being in love…it inevitably leads to damnation. That fact has been hammered into me ever since I joined the Order."

Santagar nods, sipping his wine. "An honest answer, I respect that." He takes his wife by the hand and smiles. "What if I told you love _didn't_ damn me, but rather, it set me free?

"Free from what?"

"From the influence of Exar Kun."

The words make no sense. I shake my head, befuddled. "I don't understand."

"You don't," Alivia agrees. She downs her wine, staining her lips crimson. "But you will."

* * *

 ** _Time check:_** _3 weeks, 1 hour, 37 minutes, 49 seconds before the Triumph_

Service droids arrive with refreshments. Desabel seats me in a massive oaken chair before settling against the wall, goblet in hand. Alivia pours a cup and offers it to me. I take it with a nod of thanks.

"My daughter says you escaped from the Throneworld," Alivia remarks. "Your information about us is likely scarce at best. Propaganda pieces."

She seats herself back on her own throne, swirling her jewelled goblet.

"Tell us then, what do you know of Corvaine. The rebellion?"

"Little enough," I admit. I take a tentative sip, sampling the vintage. "Thirty years ago, Corvaine was colonized as a supply world. Its natural resources armed the Republic's forces and fuelled their starships. After the decisive blow against Mandalore on Dxun, the system revolted. To this day, I am not sure why."

"Oh, I can tell you one reason," Santagar says. "Czerka Corporation. They had the contract to mine this planet and they treated it like a mule. All that mattered was the planet's bounty and the profit that came with it."

He begins to list the number of crimes with a hand. "Shoddy business practices. Unregulated labor. Nonexistent administrative oversight. I could go on. Corvaine became little more than a glorified slave pit, devoted to squeezing every drop of lifeblood from the planet."

My features harden. "That corporation has always lacked scruples. I can see why the colony revolted."

"It was a catalyst." agrees Santagar. "A perfect excuse for the Knights on Corvaine to stage their coup."

My face scrunches in confusion. "What?"

Santagar begins to reply but Alivia places a hand on his shoulder.

"You get ahead of yourself, dear," she says gently. "Shouldn't you tell him _why_ our brothers and sisters turned against the Throneworld?"

"Ah, there I go again," Santagar sighs. "Always making a fool of myself." He gives me a conspiratorial wink. "My wife, eh? I would cut off my own head without her help."

"Oh, stop," She slaps him playfully and they share a chuckle. The silk of her gown shudders with enticing ripples. Alivia sets her wine down and reaches for a set of grapes before continuing.

"Santagar and I used to belong to the enclave on Ossus. We came to know each other when we were initiates."

"We were an unruly lot. Wide-eyed and full of piss, Master Endrid used to say" adds Santagar.

"Oh, you were full of something. Ego for one," replies Alivia. Her throaty chuckle sends tingles down my spine. "Always going on about your bloodline and boasting about the fiefdoms House Nox controlled. No wonder your family sent you away."

"I'll have you know it was _entirely_ of my own volition." Santagar huffs. "Being the second son, I had to find _some_ way to stand out."

"Well you certainly made an impression on me," Alivia teases. She draws Santagar in with a lacquered nail, stroking his cheek. Then she pops a grape into his mouth, licking her lips. I shuffle awkwardly as the moment draws out. Alivia notices my discomfort. She peels away from her husband, laughing.

"Oh don't look so horrified, Exon. You were an initiate once. Don't tell me _nobody_ caught your eye in your early years."

I deflect the question. "Is that what happened with you two?"

"Oh yes," Alivia smiles. "As we grew older, there was an attraction between us. A bond."

"Eventually," agrees Santagar. "In the beginning, it was more like two teenagers raging with hormones that ended up rutting like animals. Oh, can you remember the first time your friends caught us?"

"How could I not?" she teases. "They all fainted! We had to take them to the instructors and claim they succumbed to sunstroke."

More laughter. Her cleavage heaves with barely restrained mirth. I feel my cheeks burning beneath my beard. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Desabel sucking every iota of pleasure from my discomfort.

"Look at this one! He blushes like a maiden." Alivia chuckles. "Oh, I'm teasing, Exon. Allow us a little levity." She reaches for her wine again. "We were wild though, I admit. Wild and careless."

"It didn't take long for the Masters to notice our 'unseemly behavior," Santagar agrees. "Needless to say, they disapproved."

"We were separated." Alivia mirth dies away as she says the words. "When the time came to be apprenticed, Santagar remained on Ossus. I was sent to a new enclave."

It takes me a second before I realize the implication of her words. "Corvaine." I venture.

"Corvaine," she confirms. "The High Council decreed one raised here decades ago. As the colony would infuse the Republic with mineral wealth, its temple would infuse the Jedi with recruits."

"I remember the day you left." Santagar's expression is maudlin. "I almost destroyed my liver, drowning out my sorrows."

"We made it work." Alivia gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. "All those years, even on the cusp of knighthood, we found ways to maintain relations. But then came a fateful day. Exar Kun arrived on Ossus."

"As a conquerer?"

Santagar shook his head. "No, as a revolutionary. His fall to the Dark Side was not known then. He came to make a speech."

His words raise my curiosity. Concrete facts about the traitor has always been hard to come by. "What did he talk about?" I ask.

"Change, and end to the old ways," Santagar said softly. "He condemned the current state of the Order. About how the old laws against forbidden knowledge were flawed. He blamed the High Council for letting our lore rot away in forgotten archives and that we needed to recover it before all was lost. To that end, he asked the apprentices on Ossus to leave their Master's tutelage and join his crusade. Many accepted. I was one of them."

The expression on his face changes. It is almost...melancholic. He slumps into his throne, staring into the dregs of his goblet.

"You should have seen Kun when he spoke, Exon. Charism _bled_ from every syllable. That was his gift you see. He could make even the most unpalatable seem reasonable. That was the start of my fall. I should have seen it. The taint in his words. I should have seen the lies for what they were. But I was naive and foolish. Spoiling to be part of something glorious."

I keep silent, letting the lord of the Eyrie brood. When he speaks, it is with bitter acrimony.

"He persuaded twenty of us to travel to Yavin IV under false pretence. I assumed we were going to uncover relics and cleanse the world of Sith but Exar Kun had other ideas. He conducted a ritual on us."

"A ritual?" I echoed. Santagar nods gloomily.

"With a holocron from my enclave. He claimed it was a parting gift from Master Odan-Urr before he died. In actuality, it was some sort of Sith artifact. When we were all assembled on the planet, he broke it. Something was unleashed, something…dark. All the Knights became infused with the corruption within. It drove away all sense of rationality. Before we knew it, we became helpless puppets for Exar Kun to as he pleased. An echo of his will."

He closes his eyes, massaging his temples. "Looking back, it felt like a bad dream. A nightmare I could not wake up from. I am not proud of my indentured servitude, Exon. You must believe that. I did not want to commit atrocity."

The guilt in his voice is sincere. It is not my place to vindicate him though.

"What did he make you do?" I ask quietly.

Santagar is silent, fiddling with his armrest. It is carved to resemble rearing serpents intertwined in a state of perpetual ecstasy. "Have you heard of the Jedi Progrom?" he asks suddenly.

"The Progrom? It was during the great Sith War, wasn't it?" My face creases in a frown. I sip my drink, letting history lessons flood my mind. " A number of Masters inexplicably died. Murdered. Some say the assassins were their own apprentices. I always thought that was wild speculation."

Santagar shakes his head, rueful. "Oh it is more than speculation. I know because I was one of the assassins."

I nearly choke on the contents of my goblet. "What?!"

"That was the great sin Exar Kun put down on us." Santagar says bitterly. "His chosen twenty. Tasked with spilling the blood of their own mentors. With his domination in place, I was helpless to resist."

Santagar slumps into his throne. His perceptible air of arrogance has drained to reveal mortal fallibility. Alivia rubs a soothing hand on his shoulder and leans against him.

"Cruel," I say eventually. "But I suppose the Masters wouldn't expect their own disciples to turn on them."

"That was the idea," Santagar replies. "I don't need to tell you it was a grievous blow for the Order. Not in a numerical sense, but from the sheer audacity of betrayal."

"Some Masters managed to overcome their would be assassins though." Alivia points out. "Master Dominus. Master Thon."

"Not enough." Santagar shakes his head mournfully. "Not nearly enough."

"What about you?" I ask.

His lips twitch into something resembling a smile. "I failed, though not for a lack of trying," he states. "I tracked Master Endrid to Corvaine. He was among a cadre of senior Order members sent to help keep the peace. The rioting was becoming a pandemic you see. The enclave couldn't be everywhere."

The lord considers his goblet for a moment then tosses it away. He reaches for the ewer instead. Despite all the drink, his eyes remain focused.

"One night he was walking through the training grounds alone. I ambushed him and sheer shock helped me disarm my mentor. The sound of our skirmish had attracted others but none of them could stop me in time. I had him helpless, ready to strike the deathblow. Until I heard a voice."

A warm smile blossoms on his lips. Santagar's fingers entwine with his wife's.

"Alivia stopped me. She could see I was in agony, that my body's actions were not my own. So she told me fight it. Fight the vile influence that possessed my body."

His voice begin to tremble.

"A part of me heard her and resisted. But it wasn't enough. I felt myself falling again, sucked back into the abyss. I was ready to capitulate."

He pauses.

"But then I heard something. Something that reminded me life was worth fighting for."

I stare at him warily. "What was it?"

Alivia answers for him. Her perfect lips move to form three words.

"I love you,"

"I love you," Santagar echoes, sampling the phrase like a fine bouquet. "Force above, I remember thinking that was beautiful. And I wanted to be worthy of that love. Worthy of _her_." He glances at me. "Does that sound puerile to you?"

"No."

"Good. Because, the words galvanized me. Made me fight with every iota of mental fortitude against Kun's control. And like sunshine through storm clouds, I felt his presence recede…I was free."

Santagar lets out a shuddering breath. It is the sound of a man having all his burdens lifted.

" _Freedom_. You can't imagine the euphoria I felt in that moment. And none of it, _none_ of it would have been possible without Alivia. My rock, my anchor. My soulmate.

Santagar's adulation moves Alivia's eyes to tears. She leans in and locks her husband in a fierce kiss. I look away embarrassed. For once, Desabel does not gloat.

It feels like an eternity before their lips part. "Do you see now, Exon?" Santagar asks breathlessly. "What I meant earlier?"

"I do." I shuffle uneasily in my seat. "In the end, it was her love that set you free from corruption. The one thing denied to all Jedi was the key to your salvation.

"Exactly. _Exactly._ " He thumps a hand on the table in salute to my epiphany. "I thought redemption was on the horizon then. I submitted myself to incarceration and awaited sentencing. Alivia was everything to me during that time. She petitioned the High Council itself for my release and reinstatement, arguing that my actions were not my own. Force, she was brave! Without her, I wouldn't have the strength to face judgment."

Santagar smile curdles as quickly as it appeared.

"But then the war ended. Exar Kun met his end on Yavin IV. Atris was elected to the High Council and with her came those damn archaic laws. You know of her, don't you Exon?"

He shakes his head, chortling. "What am I saying? You're from the Throneworld. Of _course_ you know who Atris is."

I nod dourly. "Her coming marked a change for the Order and not for the better."

"Then you agree what a travesty her ascension was," Alivia declares. "Force she was obstinate! The bitch absolutely refused to hear about reinstatement. Instead, she used her political leverage to convince the rest of the High Council that Santagar should undergo disjunction and a life term of prison."

Her green eyes flare. I can see her soul light smouldering.

"You can't _imagine_ my outrage. I spoke out against her hypocrisy, condemned Atris as unfit to be on the High Council and that her lack of compassion would hurl us back into the dark ages. Most of the enclave agreed."

"That could not have gone over well with Atris," I remark. Her laugh is acid with recrimination.

"Oh hardly. When we refused to surrender the prisoner, representatives from Coruscant arrived. I tried to explain what had transpired but they were Atris' pawns through and through. I was accused of sedition. They said my emotions had clouded my judgement and demanded that I choose between duty and Santagar."

Alivia's nostrils flare. "Needless to say, I chose my husband."

Her words make me feel uneasy. The dangerous glint in her eye does nothing to alleviate my discomfort.

"About three quarters of the enclave sided with me. The rest tried to force us to relinquish the prisoner. Matters became...violent. Weapons were drawn and not put back. After that...Force, it all happened so fast."

The pit of my stomach lurches. There is guilt in her eyes, but also defiance as well.

"You killed them," I breathe. "You killed your brothers and sisters."

"She defended herself," Santagar corrects firmly. "She did what her conscience dictated. Yes, brethren died by her hand but the alternative was to sacrifice her soul."

"I am not proud of shedding Order blood," whispers Alivia. She rubs her swollen belly absently. "But I don't regret my actions either. When the choices laid before you are all horrendous, your only option is to pick the lesser of two evils. Can you tell me you would have acted differently?"

My silence speaks volumes. Alivia nods, satisfied her point is made.

"Some escaped the bloodbath," she adds. "We let them go. But the dye was cast and one enclave couldn't hope to hold out against the entire Order's wrath."

"You needed allies."

A nod. "Luckily, the colony was already sick of its deplorable mining conditions. It took little effort to convince the planetary leaders to stage a coup. With help from my loyal brothers and sisters, we managed to overthrow all Czerka administrators, the army and navy elements in the system. After that we withheld our tithes. Denied the Republic its precious stream of metals and recruits."

The admission sounds like insanity. But then the larger picture comes into focus.

"Negotiations," I venture. "You wanted to bring the Republic administrators to the table. If you could get them to see how badly Czerka and the Order mismanaged the situation, maybe you could strike a deal."

Santagar raises his ewer in another salute.

"It would have worked too," he remarks. "But the bitch moved first. A proclamation was made from the High Council. With it, they declared us traitors and heretics. The Echoes of Exar Kun."

"Excommunication," I finish grimly. The word is a death sentence. To be cast out from the Order is to incur the wrath of every other enclave in existence, all honour expunged. By association, Corvaine and its inhabitants would also be cut off from all diplomatic channels and declared part of a rogue system.

"Excommunication," repeats Alivia. Her voice is stricken with the hollowness of the condemned. "I didn't want to be a rebel Exon. If Atris had been more open minded, this would never have come to pass."

She tips her head back and drains the contents of her cup.

"I detest the name she demonized us with. Echoes of Exar Kun? Pure drivel. If there was any justice in this galaxy, we would be known as the Rebel Alliance."

I grunt. Something about the name tickles my senses. Santagar smiles at my reaction. "I told you it was a silly name, dear."

"No matter." She bites into a grape. The skin bursts, rivulets of juices dripping from her mouth. They trickle down between her breasts, dark as sin. "We are what we are. If the Order insists on hurling these insults, we will take them and turn them into badges of honour. I'd say we have done well, all things considered."

"You have done better than well, you have _thrived_." My eyes travel around the room, soaking in its excess. "To tell you the truth, I didn't think you could last one year as rebels. The Republic's armies are vast and you are just one system."

Alivia flashes her enigmatic smile. "And we wouldn't have, if not for the Silent King."

The Silent King. The very sound of that title suffuses the air with foreboding. "Carmon mentioned that name before." I remark cautiously. "What…Who is this Silent King?"

The room falls silent. There is an undercurrent of trepidation. As if answering the question would unlock a whole new paradigm of understanding. Alivia and Santagar share a knowing look.

"Our savior," Santagar says eventually. "Everything we have achieved since our revolt is because of him. He provided funds. Helped fortify our defenses and gave us contacts. Contacts that could circumvent the Republic blockade and allow black market access."

"We also gained esoteric knowledge," Alivia adds. "Lore and techniques in the Force long thought lost. All this was instrumental in fending off the Republic's advances."

Santagar rises, immaculate and noble. "You are right Exon. We have been thriving. For thirty years! And the Silent King isn't done. He works in the shadows now, traveling from planet to planet, rallying like minded individuals under his banner."

"He sounds..." I trail off, trying to find the right word. "Mysterious."

"Mysterious, yes," Santagar muses. "And for good reason. As long as he remains hidden, the High Council will be helpless to prevent our grand plan coming to fruition."

"Plan?" I echo. His words trigger another wrenching bout of unease. "What…What exactly are you planning?"

The lord of the Eyrie looks me straight in the eye.

"I think you know, Exon," he says quietly. He gestures around the throne, at its absolute magnificence. "Look upon our achievements. Think back to what you have learned. It all comes down to one thing and one thing only."

It is true. The evidence of their scheming has been screaming at me the moment I stepped into their sanctum. But to speak the words aloud is to be complicit in heresy. "A revolution," I whisper hoarsely. "You are planning a revolution."

Santagar salutes me one more time with his ewer. "You are correct."

"We are close now," says Alivia. She rises and glides towards Desabel. Her gown sweeps the marble floor, as dark as wine stains. "For thirty years, we have been massing our strength. Training the next generation to champion our cause."

The lady of the Eyrie stands before her daughter and strokes her hair with pride. Desabel nods in acknowledgement. The same fierce glint is mirrored in her eyes.

"Corvaine is but a fraction of our true strength," Alivia says. "The embers of the Silent King's army are scattered across the galaxy. When the time is right, he will light the torch. Then we will march on Coruscant and drag the Order free from the High Council's dead, grasping hands."

* * *

 **Authors Notes:**

 _The actions of Exar Kun and the Jedi Progrom are actual events in Star Wars Lore. Hopefully it was interesting. There was a lack of Revan in this chapter, but don't worry. He won't be sidelined for long. And when he does...hoo boy._

 _Happy Holidays everyone!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 ** _Jkdelta38_**

 _Thanks Jkdelta38. The first few chapters will set the groundwork for the main event (i.e. the actual triumph)._

 ** _Killerkitty641_**

 _Thanks Killerkitty641. Things will only get more interesting from here on out._

 _ **T.J** chapter 8 . Dec 14_

 _ **Q:** Oh man, Revan better not be dead! My guess is that it's some sort of body double._

 _ **A:** Good guess, but no. That is definitely the legitimate article!_

 _ **Guest** chapter 8 . Dec 12_

 _ **Q:** You killed Revan, you bastard! Revan isn't really dead (or if he is, he won't remain that way), right? My thoughts? He's entered into a Force healing trance like K'Kruhk in the 2003 Clone Wars (which is apparently not canon, despite not contradicting the 2008 Clone Wars series) when he fought against General Grievous._

 _ **A:** That's a good theory! However, Exon would probably be able to tell and anybody who scrutinised the body as well. It's really close though._


	10. Chapter 5 - The Man With No Name

_**Authors Note:**_ _Chapters 5 and 6 are up at the same time! Please read this chapter first._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 5**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _3 weeks, 1 hours, 8 minutes, 14 seconds before the Triumph_

The proclamation is met with silence.

My throat is dry. I try to soothe it with wine, but the concoction tastes like ash. Even the air smells foul, spoiled with the burden of knowledge.

A rebellion. There is nothing new about this state of affairs. An enclave's discontent is simply a microcosm of the Order's failings. History is replete with such uprisings, none more damaging than the Great Schism. A byproduct of our inherent imperfection.

Perhaps the Silent King will even succeed. Perhaps he will finally land the deathblow that will end a crippled institution limping through its miserable existence. The thought is beyond treasonous but I am weary. Weary of disunity, weary of the constant backroom politics festering like weeds within the Throneworld's cloistered chambers.

I rise slowly and trudge to the edge of the throne room. Through the armourglass, I see the full glory of the enclave below. It glitters like a bejeweled city, bright and perfect.

Desabel walks up behind me.

"It's beautiful, is it not?" she murmurs. "One day, all enclaves will return to such heights."

I do not reply. The tumult of emotions churning in my gut eliminates any rational response.

"You can help us achieve this. You and your companion," Desabel suggests. "For we are not the Jedi's enemies, but their staunchest supporters."

I emit a strangled noise. Almost like a grunt of disbelief.

"The cogs of Atris' bureaucracy is unsustainable, brother." Alivia walks towards us, adding her voice to her daughter's. "You know this. That is why you fled."

She comes to rest on my right and puts a hand on my shoulder. The musk of her perfume is like the most potent aphrodisiac. "Help us rectify the High Council's mistakes. We will banish Atris' insane laws. All the outdated restrictions. The Order will rise like a phoenix from its squalling quagmire of politicking and be glorious once again."

The rhetoric is enticing in its elegance. But I am too jaded for a usurper to move me so easily.

"Is this a demand?" I ask quietly. "Will you have us executed if I refuse?"

Alivia steps back, looking surprised.

"I am no tyrant who enforces her will from the tip of a sword. Everyone here believes in the cause. If you wish no part in our struggle, then I respect your decision. You and your companion can stay as guests or leave."

"As long as we swear to stay neutral in your conflict?"

"As long as you stay neutral," she agrees.

I remain silent for a long time, digesting what I have heard.

"You have reservations, brother," Santagar says next. He appears next to his wife, slipping an arm around her waist. "Speak freely. There is nothing to hide here."

For a moment, I say nothing. The choice seems so simple, so obvious. Banish the old ways. Why limit ourselves? Let Knights indulge in their proclivities. The bonds of fraternity will be stronger for it. The Order should have done this before.

But it had, hadn't it? History was replete with such idealists and it inevitably led to tragedy.

"What you have accomplished from prying eyes," I begin slowly. "It is a marvel. It truly is. But I cannot countenance your indulgences."

The trio remain silent, their faces serene.

"Atris is an extreme. I do not dispute that. But this," I gesture to the heresy gestating in Alivia's womb. "This flaunting of the Jedi Code? It is taking your liberties too far. The Republic provides us with the recruits we need."

"I disagree" replies Santagar calmly. "There is no reason why we can't sustain the Order with our own progeny as well. Better than whisking unwilling children away from their parents."

"Jedi shouldn't be denied the right to produce offspring," Alivia adds. Her fingers traces the outline of her belly, as if communing with the unborn child within. "Who better to educate the young than their own parents? To set boundaries? Not some stranger I tell you that."

"Then what of the powers you wield?" I demand. My gaze falls on Desabel. The horror unleashed upon my brother still chills my soul. "I know you have lifted the restrictions. You willfully allow your children to delve into practices used by our mortal enemies."

"Mortal enemies?" Alivia echoes. "You mean the Sith?"

They laugh. I frown at their casual dismissal of my warning.

"Ah yes, the consummate bogeymen. Our self-imposed arch enemy." Santagar chuckles. He pops a grape into his mouth before continuing.

"It's such a simple abstraction, don't you think? To delineate all Sith and the Dark Side as one and the same? You could almost believe that particular facet of the Force didn't exist before the Schism."

His face becomes thoughtful. "I've always wondered why the Order devolved into using propaganda. Why did we grace Korriban's disciples equal status when so many greater foes preceded them?"

He answers before I can reply. "The Silent King supplied a theory. He contends that the Republic's ire after the Great Schism had reached a boiling point. The Jedi needed a scapegoat for their sins and the Sith was ideal fodder. As long as there was something tangible to vilify, the High Council could deflect the bulk of the blame. The problem is, even the _Order_ believes this rhetoric now."

"It is reductive," agrees Alivia. "Our institution has become too enamored with their own sense of self righteousness. Now, they have no qualms of labeling an entire culture as their antithesis. The bane of everything wholesome in this galaxy." She snorts. "As if the Jedi have a monopoly on ethical behaviour."

I shake my head in denial. "That is not the point. Your children wield destructive powers. The Force will eat them inside out eventually,"

"It is true," Desabel calls behind me. "My parents taught us to channel our violent impulses." She approaches and looks me straight in the eye. "But we don't let it control us. We set limits. We _master_ our rage. Is that not what the lifelong task of a Jedi is about? To control their emotions?"

I open my mouth to rebuke her but hesitate. There is truth in her words. Much more than I care to admit.

"If you still have doubts, consider this," Alivia adds. "Our Order predates the Sith by twenty two thousand years. Twenty two thousand years! Can you honestly believe that the Jedi were ignorant of the so called 'Dark Side' before those cretins? No, I posit if we delved deep enough into our past, our understanding of the darker powers would make the inheritors of Korriban look positively quaint."

She sighs. "But we put restrictions. In the modern era, there is knowledge of the Force that is denied to every Jedi. Knowledge that our so called 'mortal enemies' use with abandon. And to our detriment."

"There is a reason for these restrictions," I argue. My voice has become animated. I try to maintain neutrality in discussions of philosophy but their arguments have stirred my passion for a good debate. "To wield these powers is to invite the corrosion of your soul. It is better not to know."

"Not knowing is worse," counters Santagar. "How can we combat these powers if we do not understand them? Where is the benefit in fighting the unknown with ignorance?"

"Better crippled in body than corrupt in mind." The words are said with less conviction than they deserve. In truth, I can feel the walls of certainty crumbling.

"Ah, now _that_ is the High Council speaking through you," he chides gently. "They would see us deny the very existence of an entire spectrum of the Force. If I recognized Exar Kun's dark artifact for what it was, I would never have fallen prey to his machinations."

The look of melancholy returns.

"Yet among all his lies, Exar Kun spoke a single truth. The Order used to know so much more about the Force. Of its so called 'Light' and 'Dark' facets. But through time and fear we have become a parody of our former selves."

He walks past me and inspects his fiefdom, hands clasped behind his back.

"What would our ancestors say about the state of the galaxy, hmm? How can we look them in the eye and tell them of the treasure trove of knowledge that we willingly burnt to satisfy some moral high ground?" Santagar glances back, his expression forlorn. "No, Exon, we are worse for our ignorance not better."

My mind races furiously for a rebuttal but my heart is no longer in it. Their arguments are persuasive I admit. Every condemnation I make has been met with a sensible counterpoint. They have had practice ensnaring others to their point of view.

The trio look at me expectantly. I take a deep breathe.

"I…I will need to think upon what you've said."

Santagar tips his head. "I understand. It is much to ask and we have only just met."

He puts a friendly arm over my shoulder. "We can revisit the decision later. For now, enjoy our hospitality. Acclimate yourselves to your new surroundings and take time to meet our burgeoning fraternity. I'm sure Desabel will be more than happy to answer any questions you have."

"Of course, father," Desabel agrees. She turns to me. "You must be tired. Let me show you to your quarters. Tomorrow, I'll take you on a tour of the Grand Basilica. Maybe the Sanctuary Gardens or combat cages next. I've always wanted-."

"I want to see him," I interrupt.

Desabel blinks, confused. "Who?"

"My brother. I want to see that he's cared for."

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _3 weeks, 26 minutes, 19 seconds before the Triumph_

The room is cold. Cold like the confines of a forgotten crypt. Around me are rows of cryo pods, each host to mortal remnants. Dull lumens hang above them, bathing the ossified husks in a mournful green. The stink of sulphur and antiseptic is almost overwhelming.

"He will be preserved here until the funeral rites can be performed."

I nod at Desabel, saying nothing. A pale mists curls gently from the cryo pod in front of me. Through the glass, I spy the pale features of my fallen brother calcifying amidst the swirling smoke.

"What can you tell us, Lelieth?" Desabel turns to the other figure in the room. A crone sits behind a desk piled with discarded machine parts. She is pale, sallow. A product of hours languishing in the dark. Her hunched and withered frame speaks of a lifetime of rigorous service to the Order. Even the venerable find cause to defect.

"I have reviewed the inventory collected from the battle site." The voice is bone dry, wizened from disuse. "In all my years on Arkania, I have never seen such designs. It is...inspirational."

"Good salvage, then?" Desabel asks.

"Very."

The stooped figure shuffles up to me, carrying a piece of battle wreckage. I recognize it as part of the Predator Drone's particle whip.

"Your brother made all this?" Lelieth asks.

I nod. "The drones, the droid...and this." I draw out my lightsaber, letting the pale green light dance upon its silvery sheen.

Lelieth takes the weapon. Her eyes are covered with a scanning apparatus. Bulbous lenses click and whirr as it scrutinizes every facet of its composition.

"Marvelous," she breathes. "Hmmm, gene coded security unit. Shock absorbers with built in flux capacitors. Nonstandard focus lenses...oh my, _tertiary_ backup modules. And so lightweight! I have never seen such elegant architecture."

"Neither have I," I reply. "He forged it for me, taking my qualities into account. My fighting style. My reach."

"If half of what you say is true, then your friend was a genius. A true prodigy," Lelieth wheezes. She presses the weapon back into my hand. "I can see why you would lament the passing of such a great mind."

"He was...one of a kind," I say quietly.

"What was his name?"

"I don't know."

The women look at me, perplexed. "Surely you jest," says Desabel.

I shake my head. "Nobody does, not even him. We called him Revan, but that is not a name. More like a joke contracted into a label."

They stare at me, befuddled.

"He had a reputation you see," I explain. "An aura of secrecy. No one from the Throneworld can say with conviction what his origins are. All the Masters refuse to discuss it."

I walk to the workbench and pick up Forty Seven's head. Its soulless optic lenses glare back at me.

"Then there were the missions. With his unique skill set, the High Council saw fit to task my brother with the impossible. Many times he was sent on endeavours tantamount to suicide. Yet he always succeeded, and he always returned. It became a running joke that he _must_ have died but even in death he still serves. As a Revenant. Revan."

Desabel stares at the body thoughtfully. "So…no name, no origin," she remarks. "You make it sound like the void simply spat him into existence."

I shrug and place the head back on the desk.

"Maybe it did. It's as good an explanation as any."

The glass begins misting on his cryo pod. My brother's features cloud back into obscurity.

"I can almost believe he was always here."


	11. Chapter 6 - The Revenant

_**Authors Note:**_ _Chapters 5 and 6 are up at the same time! Please read the chapter before this one if you skipped to the front._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 6**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 4 hours, 6 minutes, 29 seconds before the Triumph_

The chamber doors slide open. Carmon enters, inspecting her surroundings with bemusement.

"Your room is positively drab, brother."

She is right. My cell is spare, windowless. A simple cot hangs over the far wall with metal racks above for equipment. One worn table holds a pair of stone cups and a ewer of water rests to the side. I occupy its only chair. It is a marked departure from the excess lavished around the rest of the fortress.

"We have ornaments fit for a palace and you choose to live like an indentured servant." There is a perceptible note of reproach in her voice.

"The sparsity comforts me." I rise from my seat. "Is it time for more questions?"

"Questions?" Carmon echoes. She shakes her head. "No, I believe we're both tired of poking through your head. We are satisfied."

She picks up my ewer, sniffs it and wrinkles her nose. "Water? For shame, brother. We have vintages from Bespin that connoisseurs would literally kill for. I'll send for some later."

"Please don't."

A shrug. "Suit yourself. Now what was I saying? Oh yes, I came to share some exciting news. The new lordling is on his way,"

I stand and offer a bow. "Congratulations."

She sniffs. "Congratulate my father. He won't shut up about having another son. Even _he_ thinks Manford is a lost cause."

I sip my cup to conceal the smile on my lips.

"Most of the enclave are preparing festivities. Would you like to attend?"

I don't. But as a guest, it would be churlish to reject the invitation.

"I would be honoured."

"Excellent, come along."

Carmon spins around without waiting for a response. I follow her out from my bubble of sanity and back into their realm of frivolous ostentation. She sets a leisurely pace. I note the hallow echo of our footsteps, the corridors devoid of laughter and mirth. Most have already gathered to welcome the new noble.

"Mysteel is coming out of her shell, I hear," she remarks. "Talking on her own volition. Even joining the children in their games."

"That is good to hear."

"Do you think she's finally coming around to our way of thinking?"

I nod. "She is. So am I."

"I'm glad," says Carmon. She gives me sidelong glance. "You know, many in the enclave would like to court her. Unless you two...?"

"No."

"I thought not." My host gives me a playful wink. "Truth be told, I think she's a little above your league."

"She's out of everybody's league," I mutter. "Have the storms shown any sign of abating?"

Her expression becomes serious once again, "Sad to say they haven't. I know you want to honour your brother. But as Dez said, the storms can last for weeks. Be patient."

I exhale and give a stiff nod. No sense in pushing the matter. "Speaking of which," she adds. "Our morticians noticed something odd."

"Odd?" I echo.

"The body. It's not showing any sign of decomposition."

"It's in cryo stasis," I point out.

"Even so, after fifteen days Lelieth says there should be minuscule traces of mortification in the muscles."

I halt, frowning. "That is unsettling. Perhaps I should take a look. Make sure nothing is amiss."

Carmon waves her hand dismissively. "Oh it can wait, let's welcome my-"

Her communicator chimes to life. "Carmon?"

"Lelieth?" Carmon frowns. "You sound worried. What's the matter?"

She is right. The voice is hoarser than usual. Saturated with agitation. "Oh thank goodness," Lelieth rasps. "With this blasted ceremony, I haven't been able to reach anyone. You would think the sentinels-"

"Slow down, Lelieth. Tell me what's going on."

"The body, Carmon. It's gone. I didn't sign off on any transfer and I want an explanation."

My eyes widen. There is only one body she could possibly be talking about. I snatch the communicator from her hands.

"Lelieth! What do you mean gone?" I demand. "What has happened to my brother?"

Lelieth is taken aback by my voice. "I-I don't know. When I came into the lab for my rounds, his pod was empty."

I turn to Carmon, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Is this a trick? Have you broken our compact?"

"No!" She looks genuinely surprised at the accusation. "Calm yourself. There must be some misunderstanding. A scheduling error."

She grabs the communicator back. "Lelieth, meet us on deck five's command node. Only the sentinels there could have security clearance. We will uncover the truth."

I am already running before she closes the link.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 3 hours, 58 minutes, 14 seconds before the Triumph_

The blast doors hiss open. I step into a circular chamber deep in the throes of chaos. The central server is a riot of grainy monitors and warning lights. Data terminals around the chamber's circumference spool flickering holographic footage.

"Vhor? Halindra?" Carmon gasps. "What in blazes is going on?"

I turn to where she is looking. A robed warrior is hunched limply over his terminal. Another is splayed on the metal floor, blood pooling from an ugly gash on her forehead. Carmon begins moving towards them. I place a hand on her shoulder.

"I'll see to them. Go check the security logs."

She hesitates, then nods. I walk gingerly, stepping over upturned chairs and scattered data slates to reach the bodies. After a moment's inspection I call out. "Vhor is out cold. No signs of a struggle. Halindra fought but got knocked unconscious."

"Damn it. Damn it all."

Carmon is at the security server. She is scrolling through the reams of data, trying to make sense of this development. Her expression tightens with dreadful revelation. "The shields and sensors in this sector have been disabled." she reports. "Comm channels, cameras and multiple alarm systems have been deactivated."

I walk towards her. "Can you raise them again?"

"I'm trying," says Carmon. A trickle of cold sweat falls down her neck. "Whoever did this locked out my access and encrypted the command protocols."

After several futile attempts, Carmon slams her fist against the console. I take a wary step back. It is uncharacteristic for her to lose her temper. But in thirty years, no enemy has achieved such feats of sabotage. She lets out a breathe to steady herself.

"It's as if..." she muses. "Someone knew. Someone _knew_ we would let our guard down today. But who? How?"

The only answer she gets is the crackle of static and blinking warning runes. "We should contact the sentinels in other sectors," I suggest eventually. "Warn them that-"

The bang of sliding doors startles us. Lelieth hobbles through, brow soaked with sweat. The ancient figure looks agitated. Pain is evident in every gesture, enacted by withered muscles that have seen too many years. She is carrying Forty Seven's head.

Carmon glares at her, eyes narrowed. "Lelieth, why in blazes did you bring that piece of scrap with you?"

"It-It's active, Carmon," Lelieth rasps. "The damn thing is active!"

"What?!"

She is right. Forty Seven's ocular sensors are bright with molten malice. It is repeating an ominous refrain.

"[Report] Signal strength optimum. Heresy will be punished. [Report] Signal strength optimum. Heresy will be punished."

"It's broadcasting!" the crone snaps. "The wretched droid is sending our coordinates to Force knows where!"

Carmon's expression borders on panic. "Turn it off!"

"I've tried!" Lelieth hisses. "It's got some sort of internal power source!"

Carmon curses. She snatches the head away and prepares to crack it open against the wall.

"I would not do that,"

She freezes. We all do.

I know that voice. One cannot hear it without feeling the cloying touch of dread. It is the herald of reprisal. The sound that compels whole systems to lay down their weapons knowing the only alternative is inescapable ruin.

We turn slowly. _Glacially_ , as if fearing our own senses have deceived us.

They have not.

Before us stands an impossibility. A miracle. Lelieth's' jaw drops. Carmon goes white as a sheet. Her shredded confidence degenerates further, revealing animal terror.

"You!" Carmon gasps.

"Me."

Revan has emerged from behind the central pillar. Like a wraith. Dark eyes bore into our souls. Scrutinizing. Judging. His scorched robes flutter with baleful intent.

"You're dead! I saw you die!" Her lips tremble as she speaks the words. Papers and equipment are knocked off consoles in her haste to get away.

"You did," he agrees.

"Are you...are you some kind of Revenant?"

Revan considers the question for a moment. "Some kind."

Lelieth begins hyperventilating. She clutches her chest, sagging on bony legs. "B-Begone spirit!" she stutters. "Torment us no more!"

Carmon turns to me, eyes wide. "Help us, Exon! Finish what you started!"

Revan eyes settle on me as well. The expression on his face is hard to read. "She's right, Exon. Finish it."

There is no hostility in the tone, only acceptance. His posture is unassuming. Exposed.

I try to deduce what he is thinking at that moment. What could possibly go through that labyrinth called his mind? It is a futile exercise. One would have better chance discerning all the mysteries in the universe before that riddle is solved.

My gaze shifts between the two. Muscles twitch with anticipation. The thought of what I must do chills my bones.

"I'm sorry,"

Carmon is still staring at me when I wrap my hands around her neck.

Her eyes widen in horror as she slams into the wall. She begins choking. Instinct makes her buck and kick her legs in the air. One skinny fist stabs furiously into my stomach. The other reaches for her weapon. I bat it away and shift, putting her in a chokehold.

Lelieth whips around. A violent wheeze escapes her lips.

"You bastard. _Bastard_."

Moral outrage burns away her decrepitude. She struggles to her feet, one hand raised to smite me. Too slowly. Far too slowly.

A dart whistles from Revan's hand and into her neck. Lelieth manages a choked gasp before slumping to the ground. Tranquilizer. Very effective.

Carmon's struggles diminish. Her nails have torn fresh gouges into my face. Blood pumps furiously from open wounds, mingling with the moisture in my eyes. She manages a strangled noise before joining Lelieth in oblivion.

"W-Why...?"

"For the Republic," I whisper.

When she is unconscious, I place her head gently against the floor. Revan observes the spectacle, giving no voice to his thoughts. I rise, wiping the blood from my face. A deep pit of disgust rises in my throat. Another betrayal. The cycle never ends. It is a perpetual legacy from an institution condemned to repeat its mistakes.

"Mysteel?" I ask grimly.

"In the adjacent command node," Revan answers. "She informs me the enclave's defences will soon be inert. The primary targets are in the central tower."

"The Eyrie. Unsurprising." I note his unsettling appearance. The detritus of our battle still cakes his skin. "Can you fight?"

"Our sister provided sufficient medical treatment along with the antidote," Revan replies. Almost as an afterthought, he adds. "How's your wound?"

There is no question what he is referring to. "My groin isn't thanking you," I growl. The ghost of a smile appears on his lips. He places a hand on my shoulder.

"You did well, Exon. I know the mission parameters were not to your liking."

My mouth twitches into a smile. It is rare for Revan to offer praise.

"Subterfuge should be left to Mysteel," I turn away so he cannot see me flush with pride. "I wasn't even certain you ingested the tooth capsule before my hands wrapped around your scrawny neck."

"Nothing is ever certain," Revan remarks. He raises his gauntlet, checking its readout. "Deliverance is inbound with our reinforcements."

"Then let us reconvene. The faster this sorry business is done with, the better," I scan the exit, checking the hallway for hostiles. "The hangar bay is two levels up. Follow me."

"As you say, brother."

Brother. It is small consolation, I know. To be recognized again as such. And yet, after weeks of deceit and betrayal, his words makes me feel absurdly grateful.

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Happy New Year everyone. You may have noticed a major time jump in between chapters. But I decided to post both of them together because Revan's been out of the limelight long enough =). Now things really escalate!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **Just a Crazy-Man**_ _chapter 9 . Dec 28, 2017_

 _Thanks Just a Crazy-Man. I hope these latest two chapters were worth the wait._

 _ **abusempowers045**_ _chapter 9 . Dec 27, 2017_

 _Thanks, glad you liked it!_

 _ **Guest**_ _chapter 9 . Dec 26, 2017_

 _ **Q:**_ _The Force Healing Trance is hard to detect if one is not already trained in it. K'Kruhk, as I mentioned before, went into one. He was left behind by his squad members since they thought he was dead, even including the Jedi Masters. Therefore, my theory could still prove true._

 _ **A:**_ _Ah, you caught me there. What Revan did was take a drug that made it look like all body functions were terminated. But yes, the Force Healing Trance would have done the exact same thing._


	12. Revan: On Subterfuge

_When engaging in a campaign of subterfuge, it is necessary to understand your opponent's outlook. What is their value system? What idols do they hold in the highest esteem? What, in short is the narrative that fuels their existence?_

 _I have come to understand everyone is the hero of their own narrative. They will have reasons to justify every choice, every action that has brought them to their current predicament. It is essential to understand these justifications, if only to reinforce that self image when necessary. Stoke the ego when required, but not overtly as to engender suspicion._

 _You may agree with their point of view, you may find it repugnant. Be impartial in your arbitration but most importantly, understand that thought process. Analyze what conclusions they draw from their experiences, whether it establishes a pattern of behaviour that is easy to predict. Determine if their biases reveal blind spots in their judgments or sympathies._

 _Equally important is to understand the vulnerabilities within their philosophies. This phase of the operation is the slowest and most fraught with peril. Look for slips of the tongue that betray a weakness, something even they do not realize. Observe their foibles, their material possessions, their intimate connections. There will be opportunities in your opponent's situation for you to exploit._

 _It may take days to ingratiate yourself into their circle of trust, maybe years. Be patient if the target does not unveil a weakness even after repeated interactions. Refrain from reckless espionage or aggressive questioning. Above all, play the role that was assigned and trust that an opportunity will present itself._

 _As you establish yourself into their social hierarchy, take time to collate your findings. Further action is unnecessary until you have identified and confirmed a legitimate weakness._

 _That critical phase, the phase of execution should be carried out in a moment of vulnerability. It is recommended to commit when your target is occupied in emotional affairs. This will impair their judgment, making it harder for them to formulate a plan to counteract yours. Maximize the element of surprise, silence as many secondary hostile assets as you can. Isolate your target and make sure avenues of escape will be obstructed. If reinforcements are at your disposal, make sure to deploy them in a manner that will optimize said emotional trauma._

 _Should the opportunity presents itself, you may find it difficult to proceed. This is to be expected. Fraternization with the enemy will have humanized them. If sympathies threaten to overcome good judgment, remember this:_

 _No one is reviled as the Oathbreaker._

Revan, _Observations: remark 8, section 5_

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Just a small update from Revan's point of view. These will pop up from time to time to complement Exon's experiences._

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 11. Jan 23, 2018_

 _Thanks! The full sized chapter will be posted soon!_

 _ **Just a Crazy-Man**_ _chapter 11. Jan 14, 2018_

 _Thanks again Just a Crazy-Man. Glad you're enjoying it so far!_

 _ **Jkdelta38**_ _chapter 11. Jan 9, 2018_

 _Thanks JKDelta. You're right, can't keep Revan out of the story for too long!_


	13. Chapter 7 - Deliverance

_**Chapter 7**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 3 hours, 41 minutes, 53 seconds before the Triumph_

My time acclimating to the enclave has been useful.

Its inhabitants remains inert, too caught up in their own indulgences to notice anything is amiss. Yet our path is not unhindered. Security droids infest the hallways and I am careful to avoid heavily patrolled routes. The few sentinels Revan and I come by are easily avoided through concealment and rudimentary mind tricks.

We ascend a flight of stairs and approach the main hangar gate. I tap a sequence of access codes into the control panel. Bolts and locking mechanisms rumble in protest as the massive hull groans upwards. Revan watches the progress through hooded eyes.

"How much further?"

"The docking bay is just beyond the next juncture," I explain. "We should-"

I freeze.

The gate has lifted to reveal nine warriors. I recognize most of them from the practice cages. Ghorve the quiet Cerean. Nissa with her lazy smiles and jokes. Kerenko, always ready with an outrageous anecdote or two. Fine companions all.

There are no friendly exchanges of banter now. All of them bear lightsabers, each flaring with murderous intent. Manford is there as well. He stands to one side, flourishing his weapon in lazy arcs. There is an insouciant smile on his lips.

"Who's the fool now, Dez?" he gloats. "I told you Exon was untrustworthy. The moment communications broke down, I _knew_ he was behind it."

"Not so stupid then," I mutter. The youth deserves credit. Despite all the insults piled upon his character, Manford came closest to uncovering our secret. It seems narcissism and paranoia have their practical applications after all.

Desabel Nox stands in the center of the troupe. She glares at me with the molten outrage of one betrayed. I cannot fault her for that. It was her decision that drew this calamity upon them. Her standing among peers has undoubtedly been tarnished.

 _Nothing_ is more important to Desabel Nox than reputation.

In truth, I barely recognize the woman. Desabel's aura has become repellent, a seething cauldron of incalculable rage. It is not just a spiritual shift. The carefully cultivated air of superiority has crumbled, revealing scars of trauma. One only has to observe her physical degradation to understand the insanity in courting the fell powers.

Puckered scars flare red from powdered cheeks. Bulging veins spider and pulsate across pale lissom flesh. Her eyes are the greatest horror of all, bloodshot monstrosities bulging from sunken sockets. There is nothing resembling humanity in those orbs. It has been strangled away, replaced by a more primal emotion.

No words are exchanged. We both know there is only one acceptable outcome for my deception. She begins to raise her hand. Warriors tense to unleash murder.

"Deliverance! Protocol Beta Rho!" Revan shouts.

My brother hurls a gas pellet on the floor. Bilious black smoke engulfs us like an erupting volcano. Curses are hurled. Commands are shouted to fall into formation. But the moment of distraction is enough.

We cover open ground in a single leap. Revan bursts out the curtain and into the surprised throng of traitors. He looks terrifying. A spectre of ancient myth, dredged up from the darkest corners of subconscious fear. The traitors squander any chance at first blood with cries of surprise.

And then, Revan is among them.

And he is killing them.

Target one, Arkanian. Revan ducks an instinctive overhead slice and separates neck from body. He kicks his flailing victim into Desabel, knocking her down.

"You fucker!"

Target two, Kerenko. Overhand strike from behind. My brother pivots, letting the blade whistle millimetres from his face. Kerenko overextends, stumbles. There is no time to recover as Revan completes the riposte and carves him through the back.

Roasting organs spill out of a ruptured torso. Kerenko's upper half crashes to the floor. He screams, convulsing as his body cooks in its own blood.

Target three, Ghorve. The Cerean crashes into Revan with a shoulder rush. He stumbles, barely avoiding decapitation from two nipping blades. Ghorve pursues relentlessly, weapons darting in like slivers of ice. Revan is forced on the defensive. He blocks and swats the strikes away, actinic light flashing with each impact.

He is too committed to see a Zabrak slash him from behind.

The attack slices open robes and muscles. Revan grunts and falters, guard open. Ghorve charges, blades poised to skewer him through the stomach.

He doesn't even see my punch until it crushes his windpipe.

Ghorve staggers. Another hammerblow reduces his conical face into a red ruin. My victim paws his face, gurgling. He is completely unprepared when my lightsaber shears him in half. Two equally charred masses thud on a floor already slick with congealed fluids.

I look up. Revan and a Zabrak are wrestling, both holding off the other's lightsaber with their free hand. Blades tremble and hiss next to bared teeth, so close it smoulders skin. The Zabrak surges forward. Bony protrusions smash into my brother's face with a _crunch_.

Blood spurts. Revan reels back, half blind. White hot energy inches precariously close to the left side of his neck. His opponent rears back for another punishing blow.

Revan bites him.

Jaws clamp onto exposed flesh and boroughs deep like some obscene parasite. The Zabrak chokes in surprises. He convulses, tongue lolling as my brother's teeth clench deeper into his neck. Revan rears back. Muscle and sinew are torn out with the movement, exposing a ruined windpipe.

His victim vomits blood. Fountains of it spurt out between trembling fingers, trying to staunch the mortal wound. The Zabrak collapses, writhing in front of Manford. Crimson effluence spatters across his boots.

"How dare you!" he trembles. _"How dare you!"_

Manford thrusts his hand out.

Incipient lightning lashes out indiscriminately. Tongues of it blast apart lumens and scorch bulkheads. The hallway begins to smoulder with burning carcasses. His remaining allies flinch at the onslaught.

"Stop it, you fool!" shouts Nissa. "You're _killing_ us!"

Manford ignores her.

I roll away as a bolt reduces the support beam behind me to slag. My brother angles his blade to deflect a blast. Residual energy arcs ricochets into the Rodian on his left. It screams, a mass of twitching limbs.

A lucky hit clips Revan on the shoulder. He falls, barely avoiding a searing blast to the face. I move to his aid.

A hand lashes out, faster than the eye can see. It grips my neck, hauling me airborne and slamming me against the bulkhead. Another rips my weapon away.

Desabel.

Force she's strong. Stronger than _me_. I paw uselessly at her hand, feeling implacable pressure crushing my windpipe.

"You should never have attempted this."

My response is reduced to incomprehensible gurgling. She hauls me around. I see Manford saunter towards Revan as he struggles to rise. A savage knee to the face knocks him prone.

"Watch," she growls into my ear. "Watch as we gut your precious brother inside out for this transgression."

I watch helplessly as Nissa and the remaining Duros converge on my brother. They raise their blades but Manford whips his head around and bares his teeth.

" _Back_. He is _mine._ "

The threat keeps them at bay. Like an alpha warding his pack from a fresh kill. He turns his glare back at my brother.

"I am going to enjoy taking your wretched life, Jedi," Manford growls. He unleashes a surge of incipient lightning from his fingertips, eliciting a howl of pain. The bastard pauses to slam his boot against Revan's face.

"You're time is over. The _Throneworld's_ time is over."

After a few more kicks, Manford grows tired of taunting. He begins channeling the raw essence of the Force in earnest.

Shredded robes, already blackened from combat crisp away. Skin and flesh begin to bubble. I snarl, struggling with raw impotence as my brother is flayed alive. Manford bends down, leaning close to savour the kill.

"We will light the pyres of our ascension with your charred corpses," he hisses. The Order-"

Revan snatches Manford's outstretched hand. He headbutts him. There is a crack like the snapping of a tree branch. The lordling reels back, his perfect nose reduced to a broken smear. Revan rises in one smooth motion, withdrawing a needle from his ruined robes.

"Impudent little _shit_. I will _fuck_ you up so hard you'll-!""

Revan stabs Manford in the eye. He screams like a wounded fawn, reaching a pitch normally unattainable by our gender. Trembling hands claw for the needle flopping back and forth in his orb. Revan grabs a fistful of his victim's hair and corkscrews the needle deeper with the palm of his hand. The eye explodes into a pulpy gory mass. Screams are replaced by gurgling. Blood foams out of Manford's mouth and he thuds to the floor. The stink of voided bowels wafts into the air as he becomes still.

Revan turns slowly, smoke rising ominously from charred flesh. He looks nothing human. A horrific amalgamation of singed cloth, sinew and broken bone animated by forces beyond mortal comprehension. Dark eyes fall upon Nissa and the Duros.

They back away warily.

I manage a choked laugh. Nails tighten around my skin, drawing blood.

"Bastard son of a whore," Desabel growls. Her words are closer to a snarl than speech. She hurls me away like a piece of broken jewelry.

Bones crack as I smash into another bulkhead. Teeth rattle. My vision blurs before solidifying back to reality. It takes several attempts to climb out of the newly dented impression.

Desabel stalks towards me, left hand extended.

"We gave you everything," she says bitterly. " _Everything_. And you repay us with treachery."

Agony sears through every nerve, scorching away flesh and robes. With a roar I charge and tackle my tormentor by the waist. We crash against a support beam, denting the foundation. She curses and punches back. The strike feels like a sledgehammer tied to a sack of bricks.

"Everything you have," I gasp through shredded lips. "Has been bought with the blood of others. Your parents must be brought to task."

Her fist hammers into my cheek, breaking a tooth. "Don't you _dare_ lay this at their feet," she snarls. "My parent's mission is a noble one. It is your Throneworld that caused this rift. _Their_ appalling leadership ruined the Republic. How many factions chafe under their yoke, eager to see their demise?"

"After today? One less."

She lets out a wordless snarl. We exchange blows, mauling attacks that would down a fair sized Rancor. My face begins to feel like a poorly reassembled jigsaw puzzle. I try to find purchase around her neck. She grabs my hands, halting them in their tracks. The bones in my wrists begin to crack. I gasp.

Desabel's rage shows no signs of abating. "I will peel the skin from your bones, you treacherous piece if shit," she growls. Her irises flash the colour of ruin as she channels manifest rage. "I will _stew_ them in the blood of your wretched brother."

I barely hear her threats. A new sound has caught my attention. The whine of jet engines, crescendoing with each passing second. It is the sound of Deliverance. Of salvation.

Protocol Beta Rho is about to begin.

I grit my teeth and heave Desabel sideways, towards the source of the sound. She doesn't seem to notice the encroaching danger.

"You will die screaming and I will-"

The bulkhead behind her explodes. The cacophony accompanying it is like the roar of some mythical beast. Shredded plates spin wildly, slicing the combat zone with indiscriminate murder. I experience a brief lurch of vertigo and feel the crack of bone on metal.

My vision cuts out.

When I regain my senses I realize all the combatants have been hurled off their feet. The collateral is horrendous. Bodies are strewn across the rubble in various states of dismemberment. Nissa lies decapitated three meters away, neck stump spurting gouts of blood. Automated warnings blare over the comms.

Another alien howls at a distance, a blue-green mass of bloody stumps. The Duros is so shredded, I can barely discern its species. Revan emerges from underneath his victim. He stands and gives the slaughter grounds a cursory glance. The tactic of meat shields is distasteful but practical. Forty Seven would be proud.

I turn my attention back to Desabel. She lies on top of me, breathing wetly. Her back is a ruin of metal shards jutting out from shattered bones and torn meat. I can feel ragged breaths on my skin but her limbs don't even twitch.

Desabel Nox's spine is ruined. She will never raise a blade again.

"Nghhh...not like this," she burbles. Bloody tears drip onto my robes.

"Not...like this."

I nudge her body to the side and behold our saviour.

Deliverance hovers behind the gaping hole. The ship is as I remember it. Sleek and sinfully black. Doggedly indestructible. The engine's thrum is like the growl of an apex predator, wet with murder lust. Its plasma cannons swivel and turn, impatient for targets.

The prow hatch opens. Dark armoured figures march down the ramp with the martial confidence of veterans. Their armour is a pristine black, streaked with crimson like ribbons of hearts blood. The nonstandard issue weapons in their hands are of monstrous lethality. Plasma rifles, flamers, _disintegrators_. They fan out with impressive alacrity, securing survivors and covering choke points. A soldier with sergeant markings approaches Revan and salutes.

"Alpha Wing Two, Vindicators, 4th company," says the newcomer. His mechanical voice is laced with static from overlapping channels. "Reporting for duty, sir."

"Impeccable timing, Ciras," Revan remarks.

"For you Boss Man? Anything."

He dips his head as I approach. "Thought you'd be dead, Exon."

"Not before you."

We clasp hands and shake.

Revan gestures for the newcomer to remove his helm. The soldier obliges.

A new face is revealed. It is a facsimile of Revan's. The bone structure, the night black hair...they are all an exact replicate of my brother's noble qualities. A mirror.

There are subtle differences of course. Ciras' expression lends itself to casual camaraderie and generous smiles. Perfectly suited for a recruitment poster. Revan's face is of sombre dignity, more befitting a statue commemorating its subject. Their eyes have the quality of midnight. Yet there is a sparkle of mischief in Ciras' that is wholly absent in my brother. Nevertheless, I have never seen an imitation that rivals him.

Field medics approach us with bandages and healing stimulants. They knit our gaping wounds and tend to our charred skin. Ciras scans the slaughter grounds as other sergeants bark orders.

"Quite the mess here. I take it things didn't go as planned?"

"There was...improvisation," I reply.

He flashes a pearl white grin. "Well, I hope you left _some_ of them alive. Can't let the Order claim all the credit now, can we?" That earns a grunt in amusement. His tone is overtly familiarity. To some, it could be construed as presumptive. For us, it is a welcome reprieve from the strained diplomacy between our two institutions.

"Report, sergeant," says Revan.

Ciras straightens, suddenly serious. "We bypassed the blockade without issue. No signs of detection or pursuit. Ava and Alpha Wing One have already dropped off. They are heading to the designated coordinates accompanied by the other Jedi. Amarinthe was it?"

"Yes."

"Reported E.T.A. is five minutes and twenty seconds."

"Noted. Have them wait for my signal once they arrive."

Ciras whispers into his comm bead. After a moment, he looks up. "They have acknowledged, sir."

Revan gives a curt nod. He dismisses the medical attendees and begins tapping commands into his gauntlet. "Deliverance will blockade the fortress and cut off all avenues of escape. After the survivors are secured, we can begin the final phase of execution."

Ciras looks confused. "So soon? Shouldn't we wait for our other reinforcements to arrive?"

Revan gives him a sidelong glance. "You _are_ the reinforcements, Ciras."

The soldier's lopsided grin falters. "A demi company and five Jedi against an _entire_ enclave? Sorry boss, but that sounds like suicide."

I put a hand on his shoulder. "Worry not. Noctua and Amarinthe are Keepers of Sanctity."

Ciras stares at me blankly. "I...I don't know what that means. Will it be enough?"

" _One_ of them would be enough," Revan assures him. "With two, it is practically overkill." At the sound of footsteps, we glance back. A woman is emerging from Deliverance's hatch.

Everyone falls silent. The air becomes thicker, as if reality is struggling to accommodate the new presence. Her soul light is blinding, flaring in the Force like a star on the verge of apocalyptic transition.

The newcomer's gait is awkward. Yet her face burns with all the fierce exuberance of youth. Hair the colour of midnight sprouts from an unruly scalp, only partially tamed by the riot of plaits and tied knots. I see skin inked with esoteric runes that attract and tantalize the mind. Bone totems rattle with auspicious rhythm as she hobbles towards us.

She stops in front of Revan. He bows low.

"Sister,"

 _"Vod."_ Her voice is a rumbling purr. The accent is thick, imbued with an otherworldly overtone.

"Thank you for joining us."

"Thank me with victory." She observes her surroundings, sniffing the air. A predator's habit. "They are close. I can smell their fear spoor."

She looks back at Revan. Eyes the brutal green of Kashyyyk flare with kill urge.

"There are no restrictions then?"

"The High Council have given full sanction," Revan confirms. "You can employ your talents to the fullest."

That makes me uneasy. "There are noncombatants, brother," I warn. "Children. Pregnant women."

Revan considers this information. He bends down and retrieves the communicator from the twitching body at his feet.

"Sister."

The voice that replies is suffused with mischief and mirth. It is the sound of a soul that delights in all of life's wonders.

"Rev, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" Mysteel pouts.

"It makes all the sexual tension between us weird."

"Do you have access to the main communications network?"

"Way ahead of you,"

"Give me their priority channel. General broadcast. Then make your way to level 5 sector A. We will combine our strength there."

"You got it."

Revan's adjusts frequencies on the comm bead. After a moment, the mechanical warnings are silenced. It is replaced by his voice, magnified a hundredfold from the broadcast system rigged across the enclave.

"Alivia Nox. Santagar Nox. This is the Order. Judgement is at hand. Both of you have been convicted of inciting heresy and the premeditative overthrow of the High Council. Do not attempt to deny this. The penalty for these crimes is disjunction and imprisonment. Resist, and the punishment will be escalated to your swift demise."

A pause.

"To the followers of these heretics, I say this. Stand down. Any attempt to hinder the execution of our duties will incur our full wrath. This is your only warning."

He lowers the communicator and looks to his assembled warriors. Vindicators and Jedi alike.

"You all know the mission parameters. Primary targets are Alivia and Santagar. Lethal force is sanctioned against secondaries. Nonviolent methods for invalids, initiates and children. Questions?"

Nobody stirs a muscle. Revan nods in approval. The grievous wounds he sustained are already an afterthought. He raises his lightsaber high in salute. "For the Jedi."

"For the Republic." I mimic my brother's gesture.

"For its people!" Ciras declares. The soldiers hold their weapons one handed and pound their chest plates.

Noctua does not join the traditional ritual. She does not even draw her lightsaber. When she speaks, the words are suffused with the weight of dread.

 _"Naasas kelir eyaytir clun a'den."_

* * *

 _ **Author's note:**_

 _The phrase that Noctua says is Mandalorian for "None shall escape our wrath." Sorry if I botched the wording. I was using an online translator and this was the best I could find. If you've read all the story so far, please let me know what you think. I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts. Thanks!_


	14. Chapter 8 - Heresy Will Be Punished Pt1

_**Chapter 8**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 3 hours, 24 minutes, 35 seconds before the Triumph_

We have arrived. The High Council's retribution made manifest.

Our coming is heralded by the grim march of armoured feet and rustling robes. Vindicators lead the formation, bearing interlocked breacher shields and plasma rifles. We, the Jedi triumvirate form its nexus. Our piercing gaze sweeps the gilded corridors for any sign of wayward kin.

Vermillion klaxons wail impotently. I hear the distant echoes of confusion and panic. The desperate calls for intelligence and support as the enclave stumbles to rouse from its self induced torpor.

It is too late. We are already among them. All that is left is the cold calculus of casualty and reprisal.

The first moment traitors know of this fact is at Kaiden's Bridge. The Sentinels posted are met with overwhelming salvos of plasma fire and spurts of flame. Our attack is so swift, so overwhelming, there is no opportunity for retaliation. Bodies are scorched and blasted apart. Men and women are immolated, howling as their flesh melts into slurry. We march on, not even slowing to douse their wretched corpses.

The bridge takes us to Tranquility Plaza. It is a riot of screaming children and women, stampeding over each other to reach adjoining exit tunnels and lifts. The mass of traitors is so numerous, Vindicators could shoot blindfolded and fell them by the scores.

Bodies are already twitching on the floor from the mob's self inflicted vandalism. Sentinels struggle to quell the unrest.

"Brothers! Sisters! Remain calm! Enter the turbo lifts in groups of three!"

"This one is full! You and the child will have to wait for the next one!"

Their pleas and attempts to moderate the riot are ignored. The sounds that tremble across the dome are shouts of terror.

"Force, save us! _Forgive_ us!"

"My wife's pregnant dammit. Let us in. _Let us in_!"

"Mother! What's happening? Why are they killing everyone?"

It may be surprising to see such a lack of courage among Jedi, even traitors. But the simple truth is many of these men and women are unblooded. Paying lip service to the Jedi Code and lacking true combat experience beyond practice and petty skirmishes. They are right to fear the true elite.

The faithless are so preoccupied with their petty concerns, they don't even notice our entrance. We are halfway across the plaza before a child finally catches sight of us.

"They're _here_!" she shrieks. "The Order is here!"

Traitors reach new heights of hysteria. They begin pushing and shoving, scrabbling into the tunnels and lifts like rodents. I catch glimpses of tearful children being ripped away from screaming parents. An elderly Vultan is trampled underfoot trying to keep hold of his charge.

We bear witness to this debacle with the dispassionate interest of statues. But I will admit this spectacle is disheartening. A reminder that civility is a mere facade to the primal responses of fight or flight. No amount of discipline can remove an instinct ingrained since existence.

The first fear. The fear of death.

"What a clusterfuck," Ciras remarks, shaking his head. He turns to Revan.

"Should we stop them?"

"No, ignore noncombatants," Revan replies calmly. "Draw your blades. Let the real enemy come to us."

At his command, the front rank of Vindicators lock energized breacher shields and draw blasters. We take our place at the center of the shield wall.

The Sentinels see our intent. They abort their attempts at crowd control and being shoving towards us, rallying into a speartip. A Nautolan directs the defenders into formation with commendable speed. When his warriors have aligned, he bellows a final order.

"Break them! Make the false Order regret this folly!"

The charge is punctuated with the thunder of boots and war cries. They crash against us, slashing furiously to find gaps in our shield wall. Sparks of lightning and aftershocks pulverize concrete. Blaster shots pulse out through shield slits. Above all the cacophony is the shrieking of lightsabers on metal as the two sides wrestle and curse.

A Vindicator is pulled out of formation and sliced apart by a dervish of blades. Another is blasted into atoms by raging lightning arcs. We bear the losses stoically, letting their fury wash over the wall like a passing squall.

Our discipline is rewarded. The onslaught begins to ebb like a receding wave. Enemy muscles tire. Breathing and swinging becomes strained. At this sign of weakness, our allies strike.

"First rank! Onwards!" Ciras barks.

Vindicators heave back with synchronized precision, bashing their breacher shields against the mountain of flesh. There is a thunderclap of metal on bone. The enemy reels back in pain.

"Into them!" Revan orders.

The shield wall parts. Our second rank surges forward, vibroblades drawn. Traitor flesh cleaves open, smoking hunks of muscle and sinew spatter against the walls. Blood squirts from severed limbs and bodies thud to the ground, thrashing. The air grows slick with mingled screams, ozone and curses.

Revan is in the thick of it, hood up, separating limbs with each stroke. He chops off a head. He impales. He bifurcates a duelist diagonally from shoulder to sternum.

I stay close to his side, an impenetrable wall of fury and muscle. As his champion, his _"Malak"_ , it is my simple honour to end threats against his life before they can reach fruition. I performing that duty now, intercepting a blade meant for his heart. My fist crushes the Twi'lek's mouth, reducing teeth to splinters. Ciras runs him through with his blade.

"With him, with him!" he roars.

The melee devolves into a slaughter. Heretics are sliced apart by the combined fury of army and Jedi. Profaning the stonework with their treacherous blood.

I will credit these heretics with bravery. Most of the fallen chose to flee our judgement. But these cleaved to their duty, misguided as it was. It does not matter. The brave died screaming like the craven.

Noctua makes the final kill. The Nautolan leader collapses at her feet, a mangled mess of twitching tentacles. She winces visibly as we regroup.

"Are you hurt, sister?" I ask.

"An old wound," she state, waving my concern away. "Much more inconvenient than this poor rabble."

I cannot disagree with her assessment. The resistance we have encountered so far has been scattered and unorganized. A credit to Mysteel's surgical sabotage. Even so, these heretics have become complacent. Overconfident. For decades, they have spit in the faces of the High Council, scoffing at their ineptitude, satisfied that the Throneworld had no solution to their blasphemy.

They should have known. Known that their heresy could not go unpunished. For all they ever had was time and that time has ended.

"The enemy preserve their strength though," she observes. I nod, looking around the slaughter grounds. Most of the mob managed to escape into the capillaries, leaving only the dead and dying at our feet. "If allowed to rally, the traitors may still overwhelm us."

"Haste then," says Revan. He points to the central tunnel.

"Our sister is isolated. We must join our strength as soon as possible." At his command, the shield wall resumes its implacable advance. We march past the mounds of corpses, past the countless orphans screaming over their parents' bodies and strike deeper into the bowels of the heretic's den.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 2 hours, 58 minutes, 4 seconds before the Triumph_

We encounter true resistance at the Sanctuary Gardens. The area has been hastily entrenched with upturned pulpits, broken monuments and chopped oak. The moment we step foot on the canopy grass, defense turrets sprout like moles from surrounding foliage. Golden combat drones emerge from ramparts, pelting us with blaster fire. Another line marches up the main walkway to meet our advance.

"They've bypassed Mysteel's overrides," Ciras observes. He raises his rifle. "Shields up! Tactical advance!"

Vindicators respond immediately. The shield wall reforms. Snipers peel away from the main group, slipping behind cover to high ground. I raise my hand in a warding gesture as does Revan and Noctua. It is fortunate that we do for the chug of cannon rounds and small arms envelopes us nanoseconds later.

The assault is withering but futile. Most of the shots dissipate in front of us, rippling away like drizzle on a pond. The few shots that penetrate our erected Aegis patter harmlessly against the breacher shields.

Vindicators return disciplined volleys through their shield slits. Plasma fire blasts defence droids apart. Sniper rounds reduce turrets to smouldering ruin. The stink of leaking hydraulics is putrid, threatening to overwhelm a battlefield already saturated with choking fumes.

And yet the defenders do not retreat. Droids hold ground stubbornly, continuing their futile downpour of blaster shots. Dying in their dozens to slow our advance.

"Obstinate bunch, aren't they?" Ciras remarks. "Squandering resources on this meatgrinder."

Revan glances at the sergeant, brow furrowed.

"Do not underestimate," he warns. "Their behaviour suggests a motive."

"To what end?"

"They want to keep us on open ground," my brother replies. "The enemy is trying to achieve something."

His observation is prescient. Khorinar breaks radio silence. "Multiple new heat signatures detected," the sergeant reports. "Enemy reinforcements are inbound,"

I scan ahead. A phalanx of traitors is emerging from the major conduit tunnel. They march past entrenched droids, robes unfurling with gestating malice. The hairs on my skin stand on edge. Something is different about these warriors. Their auras are brighter than the Sentinels, more attuned to the mysteries of the Force. But there are more disturbing nuances.

The accumulated taint of primal forces mars their features. Many are adorned with tattoos, obscene patterns that can trace their origins to Korriban. Their robes have stained and darkened, their skin has shrivelled, and ruin infests their eyes.

Noctua senses their taint. _"Dha verda,"_ she snarls.

I understand her meaning. The newcomers are... _were_ Consulars. Those most precious of resources reserved for pivotal engagements. Now they are Force shriven, men and women that supped too greedily from the altar of forbidden knowledge. Letting disciples of the Sith pollute their minds with practices of atrocity. Some may even _be_ our mortal enemies. They are all cursed souls in the end.

Incipient lightning begins rippling from the their fingers. I sense overlapping choirs of energies bubble and froth into new agonizing forms. The air is _trembling_ , giving birth to screams of insanity that shake the enclave's very foundations.

"Brace!" Revan shouts.

Reality rips asunder. Energies from beyond the veil bleeds out, blackening the sunlit dome. It forks out in molecular rending arcs, ripping and tearing through solid matter. The raw fury of the Force roars like a tsunami and crashes against our Aegis.

The three of us gasp. Our wall of Force flickers madly, struggling to maintain cohesion. Pure malice bleeds through the cracks, snapping and slithering. Eager to feast on our souls. My temple throbs. Rivulets of sweat fall down my neck. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the pressure reach an excruciating crescendo.

"D-damn it!"

Our Aegis breaks, shattering into a million shards of glass. Shockwaves and air splitting harmonics crash into our ranks. Vindicators begin dying. Several are ripped apart, their constituent atoms separated by raging tempests. Others simply explode, body parts raining in all directions. The shield wall crumbles like wet sand.

"Defensive positions!" Ciras shouts.

Vindicator withdraw. Several move to take cover behind ripped tree trunks and crumbling masonry. Others commit to dragging away the wounded. Our retreat does not go unpunished. Droids identify command personnel and begin delivering withering suppression fire. Khorinar is pitched back by a head shot. Montigue dies screaming, shredded by lightning tendrils.

Many soldiers would be unmanned at this point. The otherworldly dread we inspire among the uninitiated has been documented extensively. Discipline falters. Accuracy becomes non-existent. But the Vindicators do not break. They fire in bitter retaliation, unleashing controlled salvoes of plasma to cover their retreat.

The Consulars remain untouched. Their own Aegis smothers the hellfire with contemptuous ease but the distraction is enough. Our vanguard is preserved in an orderly fashion.

It takes several agonizing seconds for Revan and Ciras to haul a maimed private behind a giant boulder. I drop a groaning flame trooper next to them a moment later.

"We're suppressed," I note. The Sanctuary Gardens has been swept into a maelstorm. Thick tendrils of energy uncoils and writhes in realspace, bleeding in from the Force itself. I can feel the chug of blaster fire, the actinic buzz of lightning pricking my skin. Any attempts at a massed countercharge would be a suicidal endeavour at best.

"Our allies are no match for such esoteric might."

"No, they are not," Revan agrees. He glances at Noctua. She is standing twenty meters away, behind a collapsed monument of Tharsis Orne. Soot and debris have caked her robes but she seems utterly unconcerned by the fallout. Her mouth is bared in a snarl beneath eyes bright with battle lust.

"Sister!"

Noctua turns. My brother makes a complex pattern of finger gestures. His devised battle cant.

 _Show them the error of their ways._

Our sister nods and rises. Ciras tries to call a warning but Revan puts a hand on his shoulder. He shakes his head.

"She's going to get herself killed," Ciras protests.

"No, she won't," Revan assures him. "This is what our sister is here for."

He turns to me. "Three pronged attack. Make sure our sister gets close."

I give a curt nod.

Revan's charges up the right flank, exposing himself to snapping coils of lightning. He leaps and rolls, jumping from cover to cover, managing to stay just ahead of the onslaught.

I complement my brother's example. Stepping out to the left, droids immediately inundate me with salvoes of enemy fire. But I do not flee. I am a wall, marching _into_ the carnage, deflecting shot after shot and letting my Aegis soak the worst of the tempest. Vindicators make use of our distraction. Gatling lasers roar. Disintegrators and missile launchers unleash withering salvos of punishment. They _hammer_ into the enemy Aegis, explosions so bright it pains the eye.

The devastation unleashed by each side is ruinous. Reality crumbles. Stormwinds surge across the gantries, ripping corpses and tree trunks into the air.

Through this pandemonium, Noctua hobbles in plain sight. Brazenly. Almost foolishly so, but our feint has limited the ire inflicted upon her. What few plasma and crackling bolts she receives patters harmlessly against her erected Aegis. Cannon rounds glance aside, ricocheting to powderize solid rock.

She is ten meters away before the enemy attack her in earnest. Lightning, as vivid as the storms of Manaan rip and roar at Noctua.

The Keeper of Sanctity raises her hand. Projectiles explode in front of her in a shower of spilled force. Then it is gone.

"This is foolish," Noctua growls. "I can sense the boundaries of your strength."

The Consulars hesitate. They can sense a change. The palpable aura pulsating from Noctua's ravaged form. Something is coming, something deep from within the blackest wells of infinity. A heretic, mottled with battle scars shouts out a command.

"Stop her! Unleash every level of hell, but stop her!"

More of the faithless summon destruction, crying out forbidden words of power. A maelstorm descends upon Noctua. Razor sharp winds accelerate even faster, ripping through stonework, solar arrays and discarded metal. For a moment, our sister is engulfed in a wall of noise and fury. Then it is ripped away.

By rights, Noctua should have been atomized. The enemy's conjured inferno should have claimed her as surely as a moth to the flame.

Our sister remains standing, completely unharmed.

The Consulars gape at her, stunned. For a moment, I can feel their fear. True fear. Noctua stares back at the traitors, eyes cold with contempt.

She speaks a word.

The sound is nothing as simple as air compression. It is less a word than a shudder in the very fabric of the reality.

The traitors feel it. A mental hammerblow. Part of their phalanx collapses like a house of cards. Battle scarred veterans clutch their heads, screaming incoherently. Blood pours out of their orifices. The rest of them reel away, bloodshot eyes wide.

Revan leaps out of cover, pointing his blade at the Consulars. "Now! With her!"

I move to join him while Ciras redirects the offensive. "Priel, covering fire!" he snaps. "Assault teams, regroup!"

Sharpshooters rise from ramparts and begin picking off lone defence droids. Breacher squads begin their implacable advance, locking energized breacher shields.

Revan and I crash into the Consulars, cutting through them in a whirl of slashes and parries, picking up momentum as we run. They respond awkwardly, ranks of bodies blocking each other's movements. Many are hacked down before they can even summon war-cries out of their scarified throats. By the time we reach Noctua, our robes has been spattered with sickly black blood.

"Do you require assistance, sister?" I ask as we approach.

"No, ask a better question."

The remaining heretics regain their wits. Like hornets, they streak towards us, flooding the air with shockwaves from splayed-wide hands, desperate to end their torment. Noctua draws a breath. Heretics attempt to ward themselves but no mental defence is sufficient.

Killer harmonics wash over them. Traitors reel, screaming. A Vultan begins clawing at her face, drawing lines of blood. "Get it out! Get it _out_!"

The adjacent Sullustan tries to calm her. His companion spins around, horror etched on her taut features. "No! _Noooooo_!"

She swings wildly at a nonexistent tormentor. The Sullustan's head thuds to the dirt, mouth agape.

Amidst this carnage, Vindicators arrive. They reap a path through the horde, slicing and decapitating. Step by step, metre by ichor-stained metre, they push the Consulars back from us. Sniper beams rip through the sky, puncturing skulls like rotten cysts. Blood spurts and gushes. There are _rivers_ of it, a tribute to war's perfected art form.

The art of death.

At the center of this slaughter, my brother stands tall. He cleaves through a snarling Umbaran and raises his blade high.

'Fight on!' Revan shouts.

Blasters roar, battle-cries are unleashed, and the hordes of the heretics scream in hatred and desperation.

'Fight on!'

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 2 hours, 37 minutes, 19 seconds before the Triumph_

The cacophony of battle recedes. Isolated droids are picked off, sacrificed by the few traitors that flee deeper into the enclave. Those who remain are in no condition to escape.

Dozens of traitor Jedi and Sith lie in mental ruin, mewling and weeping. Most are a gurgling mess of charred flesh and broken bone. Some are splayed in disturbing contortions, mimicking the agony in their shrivelled souls. Others are gibbering nonsense, their minds ruined beyond all salvation.

The foetid stink of voided bowels is overpowering. One heretic is so unmanned, he succumbs to slamming his head against the wall repeatedly, letting a viscous paste leak out between the cracks of his skull. A foul taste rises in my gorge. I spit it out.

"Force above, I think I am going to be sick," I growl.

Revan looks on, silent. I cannot sense horror or pride from him. Unlike the countless souls that infest this galaxy, his aura is hidden to me. Whether by intent or natural aberration he is a ghost in the plane of the senses.

"Put them out of their misery," he says eventually.

Vindicators present flamers, nozzles spitting blue flame. The roar of promethium engulfs the chamber. Our former brothers and sisters scream as their bodies are liquified. Heretics writhe as flesh chars and sloughs off bone. Fat bubbles and pops, fanning the conflagration. In moments, they are reduced to smoking sludge. We watch the horror silently, grim faced. Such is the fate of all traitors.

Ciras approaches us, face pale. I sense unease within him. From all of them. It is the ingrained anxiety that the uninitiated have for the unknown. That is understandable at least. The powers unleashed on this battlefield were of an entirely different magnitude to what mortals should witness.

He sneaks a furtive glance at our sister. Noctua is hunched several meters away, the dead already an afterthought. Her gaze is locked on the escape tunnels where further prey awaits. She senses Ciras' scrutiny and turns back, eyes narrowed. The soldier looks away immediately.

"I've been around a lot of your kind, boss," he croaks. "A _lot_. None of them could do..."

Ciras struggles for words before gesturing to the stinking pile of melted offal.

"...this."

Revan nods. "It is a craft from a bygone age. Only the Keepers of Sanctity on Coruscant possess the knowledge to weaponize the Force in such a matter. They call the technique 'True Words'."

Ciras shakes his head. "I don't care what it's called. What did she _do_ to these poor sods?"

Revan pauses, considering the question. For a moment, I believe he won't answer. Such secrets are not for outsiders to know. "We are protected," he says eventually. "Melanin for radiation. Antibodies for diseases. People have evolved...limiters that shield us from the harshness of reality. However many are ignorant of their natural defences against the Force."

The sergeant holds up his hands, exasperated. "Wait, you've lost me. Are you saying exposure to the Force is _lethal_?"

A nod. "Every soul claims varying degrees of affinity to it," he explains patiently. "but none can be exposed to its raw energies fully. So we access the Force through a filtered mental veil."

He spares a glance at Noctua. Her stooped silhouette is foreboding, twisting to monstrous forms as the flames leap higher.

"As a Keeper of Sanctity, our sister knows how to lift that veil. Her words _shatter_ the aegis so the traitors are exposed to the Force in its purest, rawest form. It destroys them."

Revan turns to face the sergeant directly. His eyes are hard as flint.

"Make no mistake Ciras. The Force is not to be trifled with. Light Side, Dark side... these are meaningless qualifiers. Labels to describe a power far beyond the scope mortal minds can comprehend."

"Even the Jedi?"

"Even us," agrees Revan. "To the Force, we are simply sentient microbes pawing at the shallow end of an infinite sea. We may tap into it, use it for our own ends, but the well of infinity brooks no master. And without protection, even the lightest step into that abyss will destroy you."

The flames begin to die down. Revan moves towards the exit tunnel. "Order your soldiers to regroup," he calls back. "We must press the attack."

Ciras looks like he wants to ask more but discipline holds his tongue. He glances at me instead.

"Sometimes..." The soldier pauses and shakes his head. "No never mind."

His hesitation surprises me. Ciras is the exemplar of audacity. His exploits on Solace are ample proof of that fact. "Go ahead, Ciras. Speak your mind."

He takes another breath. "Sometimes, I say to myself that you and the Boss Man are like us. Flesh and bone. Mortals."

"We are," I assure him. "Jedi are not unique. We bleed and die just like everyone else."

"With respect, Exon, I think you know that isn't true," Ciras replies. There is an odd tremor in his voice. "Your kind have access to powers better left to gods. When you go to war, it reminds me your kind are literally a breed apart. It terrifies me."

I blink. Ciras has never spoken in this manner before. The honesty is unnerving. For a moment, I catch a glimpse into the psyche of an outsider bearing witness to occult powers. From that perspective, I begin to appreciate how the wider Republic must view their protectors.

 _It terrifies me._

Ciras moves away, shouting orders for Vindicators to fall back into formation. I linger, casting one more look at the funeral pyre before moving to join my brother and sister.

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Thanks to everyone who has responded to the story direction so far. I really appreciate it! Please keep letting me know what you think. =)_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **RevJohn1197**_ _chapter 13. Feb 10, 2018_

 _Thanks, it's great to have you back!_

 _ **Just a Crazy-Man**_ _chapter 13. Feb 8, 2018_

 _You betcha! Got to throw that phrase in at least once. =)_

 _ **Guest**_ _chapter 13. Jan 31, 2018_

 _ **Q** : I guess Revan's really a Mandalorian._

 _ **A** : No, Revan isn't a Mandalorian. Noctua would call Exon 'Vod' or anyone she considers worthy of being referred to as such. It's more an indication that she's still tied to her old culture. _

_**Q** : Noctua's new right? I can't remember her being in your older works._

 _ **A** : Noctua is a new character. Her role and Mandalorian heritage will be addressed later on._

 _ **Q** : Who would win between Grand Admiral Thrawn and the Revanchist?_

 _ **A** : Sorry, I don't know enough about Grand Admiral Thrawn to make an educated guess. =)_

 _ **Q**_ : Will Vima Sunrider (daughter of Grand Master Nomi Sunrider) appear in this?

 _ **A** : Funny you should mention the Grand Master and the fact she has a daughter. This will become a matter of importance as the story progresses. The daughter won't be involved personally but the fact she exists will also have…ramifications._

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 13. Jan 30, 2018_

 _Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying it so far!_


	15. Chapter 9 - Heresy Will Be Punished Pt2

_**Chapter 9**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 2 hours, 31 minutes, 17 seconds before the Triumph_

The heretics are frightened.

One does not have to be Force shriven to sense that desperation. With each blood soaked step, that fear becomes palpable. It is in the air, an absolute _terror_ that saturates the skin. And with that fear comes a growing panic in their tactics.

At the Crystal Roads, enemies approach us head on. They flood the corridors, forcing combat that is close-hemmed, brutal and unsubtle. But they have the numbers and fight with the vigour and arrogance of those confident in an eventual victory.

We massacre them. _Revan_ massacres them. Under his stern gaze, Vindicators cut down traitors with brutally precise volleys of plasma fire. Noctua's voice, the "Voice of God" rings like thunder. Where the unclean masses hear it, they despair. The tide of flesh reels back, screaming in agony, begging for release from their tormented existence.

We oblige them.

The enemy adjusts their tactics. They attempt subtlety, laying monofilament wires and explosives at choke points. The corridors become an infested labyrinth of mines and thermo detonators. Ambushes are laid out. Skulking assassins jump from secret passages, harassing our rearguard, trying to sap our strength one soldier at a time.

It is a pointless maneuver. Our sister has penetrated every level of their security. My brother's instruments pinpoint hot zones and the codes Mysteel provides are more than sufficient to trigger the explosives prematurely. Many potential assailants are ended by their own creations. Those that avoid the unexpected backlash are easily identified by my unwavering gaze and silenced.

With that realization comes a policy of scorched earth. The enemy try to gas the halls. Flood them. Collapse entire sections of their own sanctum in the vain hope that something, _anything_ will stop this nightmare from reaching its logical conclusion. The tactic forces our squads to backtrack, but it is more inconvenient than lethal.

"I'm beginning to feel sorry for the enemy," Ciras says lightly through the private channel. "This must be what a cornered rat feels like."

The remark is made in jest but Noctua is not amused.

"Do not be lulled into complacency," she growls, startling him. "Cornered prey are like _vheh'ade_. They will take risks, lash out in ways we will not suspect. Be prepared for the worst."

"Ah...as you say, my lady."

"Lady?" Noctua echoes incredulously. She bares her teeth, a gesture of challenge. "There is no need for insults, _ruus'alor_." Ciras looks away and pretends to be fascinated by a nearby wall. I suppress a smile.

We reach the training grounds. The scale of it is impressive. Granite statues of ancient Jedi line the walls, their stern faces gazing down at us like demigods. Each clutches a massive torch, fashioned to resemble our weapon of office. The cavernous ceilings are far out of sight, dotted with diminishing points of lights like constellations.

Those dim lights reveal seven traitors at the central training mat. They stand shoulder to shoulder, eyes trained at our encroaching forces. Unusually, they do not draw their weapons. Perhaps the enemy have finally chosen to negotiate, an encouraging sign. At fifty paces, a Chiss raises her hand.

"Come no further, Throneworld bootlickers," she growls. "Your reign of terror ends here."

"Have you come to surrender, heretic?" Revan calls out. "The terms stand."

She sneers. "You invade our home, butcher our people, then have the temerity to tell _us_ what to do?"

The heretic spits at my brother.

" _Fuck_ your terms. You are nothing but a pack of hooligans, enforcing compliance at the tip of a sword."

Revan doesn't even blink. "As you wish."

At a signal, Vindicators take aim. Another heretic shouts before the execution order can be given.

"You will not spill any more blood tonight! Especially not our children's."

"Children?" I echo. My stomach lurches at the word. Then I see them. Tiny figures appear out from the gloom. They shuffle in front of the heretics, forming a protective cordon between us. My eyes widen in horror.

"Oh, you have got to be _shitting_ me," Ciras mutters.

Initiates of Corvain's enclave stand before us, the forbidden progeny of our wayward kin. Twi'lek, Torguta, Arkanian...it is a colorful assortment of heresy I admit. Most are barely older than infants, their impressionable minds still ripe for corruption. All are looking at us with the terror of invaders.

The few heretics among the crowd make no attempt to dissuade that notion. They point and shout, whipping the children into an emotional frenzy.

"Look!" one declares. "Look upon the invaders that burned our home. They want to _kill_ us. Enslave us!"

"Think of your parents! These monsters want to take them away from you!"

For a moment, all we can do is stare, mouth agape. The spectacle is horrifying. Insidious. A demonstration of the perverse lengths Alivia and Santagar will go to avoid justice.

"Despicable," growls Noctua. "Using their own as meat shields,"

I nod grimly. Though so much else had been forgotten, the means to cow the masses through fear was still commonplace. For the first time since this operation began, there is doubt. I turn towards my brother, frowning.

"This is an unforeseen dilemma."

"It is," Revan replies.

"We cannot turn our blades against them."

"Agreed." He glances at Ciras.

"Nobody fires. No sudden movements. Let us try to make these children see reason."

The sergeant nods and sub vocalizes the order. Revan steps forward from the shield wall and slowly raises a hand to the mob. It is meant as a placating gesture but panic has thoroughly infected their minds.

"He's preparing an attack!" someone shrieks. "Defend yourselves!"

I never see the speaker but the words are taken to heart. Initiates run screaming at us, eyes wide while their masters urge them on with false hope.

"Damn these craven bastards," Ciras curses. He raises a hand. "Holster primary weapons! Nonlethal protocols only!"

The order is barely carried out before they approach firing range. Vindicators unleash stun rounds, pitching initiates into twitching heaps. More come on. In an instant, we are swarmed by a sea of adolescents. I club at them with the butt of my lightsaber, sending two or three flying back with each swing. The blows are mild, with the intent to stun but the screams of pain are jarring.

Noctua is beside me. She expels a litany of Mandalorian curses while swatting the initiates away with shockwaves. They tumble like bowling pins, howling as fragile bones break on impact. I would chastise my sister but by her standards, these attacks are positively restrained.

More adolescents stumble into our ranks, flailing their lightsabers like pitchforks. The children are terrified. Yet that fear is smothered by the greater dread of believing extinction is their only alternative. And though their skill is pitiful, the brutality and desperation of those strikes begin to draw blood.

We quickly exhaust our supply of tranquilizers. Revan is forced to hold a screaming Miralian at arm's length. She kicks and claws wildly until Ciras can subdue her with his own stun gun. Then six more pile on them.

"Kill them, children! No mercy!" shrieks a heretic. The desperation in her voice is nauseating.

Our allies are fighting a losing battle. Vindicators hesitate, pulling their blows, trying to employ the least violent method of subduing victims. This allows openings, something unthinkable against real opponents. And there are so many. So many! Blades inevitably slip through, felling veterans through sheer weight of numbers. The few adult heretics kill with impunity, capitalizing on our reluctance to engage non sanctioned targets.

"They're dying! Just a little longer! Onwards, onwards!"

I grimace at the mounting pile of bodies. The losses are already greater than all our previous skirmishes put together. I should be angry at this appalling fact but in truth, there is only sadness.

To these children, we are murderers, not redeemers. The traitor is right. We have invaded their sanctum, burned it, defiled the only home they have known. And even though they _are_ heretics, it is not by choice but by the hands of their wayward progenitors. My ire is reserved for them and them alone. Their punishment must be swift and unrelenting if any part of their souls can be saved.

One of the traitors summons their own shockwave. It cuts through our left flank felling Vindicators to the ground. The warrior wades into the opening, slicing heads off with each swing.

"Exon! The left!" Ciras shouts.

I shove several opponents away, suffering nicks and swipes in the process. Ignoring the pain, I leap through the throng of diminutive tormentors and land next to the traitor. He turns to me, surprised.

"Coward," I snarl.

My first blow sends him staggering. I follow up, slashing left and right, breaking through his guard. A meaty left hook cracks against his skull. The traitor crumbles. He raises one trembling arm as I prepare to sever his wretched neck.

"Leave my father alone!"

A sharp jolt erupts from my side. I grunt, reeling away from a swiping lightsaber. Batting it away, I see the wielder is a tiny girl. She hisses, her round face almost demonic against the red glare.

"Die, bastard!"

Arcs of white lightning flash from her fingertips. The attack isn't powerful but I recoil nonetheless. A girl no old than ten. _Ten_! How could these deviants poison the minds of their own flesh and blood like this?

Within moments, the child's aura begins flickering erratically. Her skin glows hot like fresh coals. Veins bulge from her arms and black smoke unfurls from her robes. Tiny yellow eyes widen with fear.

"Father. W-what's happening?"

The heretic at my feet raises a hand at the child. "Missandra, stop! You're not strong enough to channel so much power!"

"I-I can't! I don't know how!"

She begins crying. Big fat tears pour down her cheeks as her body begins smouldering from Force feedback. "Father, help me! Please, help!"

The air explodes. Every combatant nearby is thrown off their feet. Even as I recoil half blinded, I can feel the child's agony as the raw fury of the Force consumes her. There is a scream that is abruptly halted, like a chasm slamming shut.

I open my eyes. The child is gone. All that remains is a fine pile of dust where she once stood. Her father crawls forward, clawing at her remains. Everyone else is frozen, transfixed. For an eternity, the only sound echoing across the hall are the sobs of a grieving parent.

Revan breaks the spell. He moves to stand in front of the heretic, disapproval etched clearly on his features. The heretic looks up, red rimmed eyes narrowing in anger.

"You bastards. You did this to her. _You!_ "

He lashes out, punching and beating at my brother's chest but there is no strength to his blows. I see the face of a wrecked soul, weighed down by the enormity of his transgressions. After a moment, he sags, reduced to a blubbering mess at Revan's knees.

"Send me to my daughter," he whispers hoarsely "I want to be with my daughter."

"Gladly."

All it takes is one swing. The heretic's stricken face rolls away, settling a few feet from a group of children. They look down at it and back at the executioner, lips trembling.

"Mark this well," Revan says in a low voice. "Your mentors have deceived you."

The defiance drains from the children. Most fall to their knees, sobbing. Others turn towards their tutors, their imploring eyes seeking guidance.

"Master. What happened? What should we do?"

The remaining heretics look at each other, dismayed. One by one, they drop their weapons and raise their hands in surrender. Vindicators approach them with chains and Force collars.

I barely notice their capitulation. My heart is still heavy with grief. Pained with the memory of atrocity.

The girl's final scream will haunt me for years to come.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 2 hours, 14 minutes, 26 seconds before the Triumph_

We take time to round up prisoners, redistribute ammunition and assess our situation. Attrition has drained our forces to two thirds strength. Several Vindicators are non combat effective. Acceptable casualty rates but my brother looks troubled. He glances around the chamber.

"Something's wrong."

"Oh really, Boss Man?" asks Ciras. He gives a morbid chuckle. "We just turned our weapons on children. One fucking _exploded_. If that isn't the stuff of nightmares, I don't know what is."

Revan shakes his head.

"That is not what I meant. Mysteel should be here by now."

He is right. Our sister's arrival was expected almost ten minutes ago. Despite her carefree nature, she is not prone to tardiness. We try to raise her through the comms but the channel is eerily silent.

"She is probably delayed," I suggest. "The enemy's sabotage has inconvenienced us all." Nobody looks convinced by this.

"Should we wait for her?" Ciras asks. There is trepidation in his voice.

"No, we press on," Noctua declares. "Our assault has already been delayed by these fools. Every second we waste gives the _aruetiise_ to fortify."

"We cannot just leave Mysteel behind," I protest. "She may be pinned down, desperate for aid."

"More, likely she is dead," Noctua states flatly. She gestures to our brother "That possibility was in our _vod's_ projected scenarios. She accepted the risks."

We stare at Revan as he considers this dilemma.

"We move," he says eventually. "Haste is paramount."

I shake my head, dismayed at his decision. Mysteel is an odd Knight, but an invaluable one. Her skill set was the only reason this mission was possible at all. And while it would be easy to justify my reluctance for reasons of practicality, I admit to a certain fondness for her antics.

As Revan has demonstrated before, there are alternative ways to tackle a dilemma.

"What about these prisoners?" I ask, gesturing to the children. "Many are wounded, some critically. We need to help them."

"There are not enough resources," argues Noctua. "And we cannot spare fresh soldiers to put them under guard."

"We are responsible for all the wounded now," I retort. "If they die away from the battlefield, It will be a stain on _our_ honour."

Noctua frowns. Ciras glances at his wounded soldiers. They look halfway convinced. Good. My concern for the children's welfare is sincere, but it is secondary to Mysteel's. An excuse to buy time for her.

Revan observes me, sifting through my expression. My face is granite but I can feel cold sweat prickling down my neck, the immense weight of his scrutiny almost unbearable. Does he suspect my motives? Of course. It is impossible to conceal intent from my brother for his capacity for unveiling falsehood is unmatched. Only merit can hope to sway his opinion. He turns abruptly.

"Come with me, all of you."

We look at each other uncertainly before following. Revan approaches the adult circle of chained heretics. Most of them flinch as we approach. One does not. The Chiss juts her chin up defiantly, her ruby red eyes boring holes into her captors. Revan stops in front of her.

"Name," he orders. She looks him up and down before replying.

"Lisette."

"You're actions have earned you death," Revan remarks.

"I'm not afraid to die," she growls.

"And yet you have no qualms sacrificing children to extend that wretched life,"

Anger flares through her nostrils. She tries to rise but a guard hauls her chains in place. "We were defending our home!" Lisette snaps. "You would have done the same."

The expression on our faces shows how ludicrous that statement is. Revan just stares at her, disdain radiating from every pore. Lisette tries to match that stare, but the pressure is stifling.

"You used children," he says in a low voice. What's worse, you used them _poorly_. What kind of teacher gambles their own future as hostages? Think about the precedents you are setting."

Lisette winces at the accusation. "There was no other way," she says through gritted teeth. "We else could we have done?"

"Lock them away," I growl. "Keep them out of sight as we warned. _Anything_ would have been better than this folly."

"I agree," says Revan. "It is the sort of tactic a _simpleton_ would employ. Were you all dropped as children?"

The heretic flinches at the verbal lashing. She opens her mouth to speak, but Noctua suddenly rounds on her. The heretic recoils, eyes wide.

"Be glad you are not at the mercy of my people," Noctua growls. "In my clan, we called enemies like you a _di'kut_. Fool. Not worthy of a clean death."

She leans close, an alpha predator peering down on its victim. Noctua's skin is a marvellous tapestry of kill tallies and clan scarification. Totems of bone, teeth and fur rattle as she breathes, the collective trophies of countless battlefields. She stinks of blood, old and new. It is spattered across her skin, drenched into the very _marrow_ of her being. The inheritance of a culture steeped in warfare. Lisette sees all this. Sweat pours down quivering lips.

" _Di'kut_ were paraded in front of the clan, naked as newborns," Noctua continues. "They were stoned. Not by us, but by their subordinates. Their _own_ warriors."

Lisette pales. Noctua leans even closer, her cloying breath thick with kill urge.

"And it took _days_ for birds to pick the bones. They pecked and gouged out eyeballs, feasting while their victims screamed. Their deaths were humiliating and slow, but it is a fate well deserved. The fate that awaits all traitors."

I walk forward to protest Noctua's threats but Revan gives a subtle shake of his head. That confuses me. Was this another of his unfathomable schemes? Reluctantly, I step back, watching Lisette cower like a sow for slaughter.

"You're a monster," Lisette whispers.

"Perhaps," Noctua admits. "But unlike you, I am a competent one."

The words chill me. In that moment, I catch a glimpse into her mindset. An _alien_ mindset, utterly devoid of values espoused by the Republic.

Officially, there has never been a Mandalorian in the Jedi Order. But in reality Noctua is _beskar_ through and through. Raised in a culture with all the innate sympathy that a nomad has for the settled. We are humans, with all the genetic idiosyncrasies that entails. But with the gulf in cultures, we might as well have been born on different _dimensions_. Pain and fear is a universal language however, and Noctua has ample experience with both.

Lisette's spirit breaks. She lowers her gaze, no longer able to bear our scrutiny.

"I don't want to die," she says between sobs. "I _don't._ You are right. I am a coward. Just...please, have mercy."

Noctua turns away. Revan kneels down to take her place. "Listen well, for I am not in the habit of granting clemency," he says quietly. "A medic will take both our wounded away for treatment and incarcerate the rest. You will assist in any way they see fit. Stay out of sight and avoid contact with anyone. Any deviation from these instructions will be punished."

Lisette swallows but says nothing.

"I expect full cooperation," he continues. "Do not give our guards a reason to contact us or being stoned to death will be the last of your worries. Do you understand?"

"I do," she says quietly, eyes downcast.

Revan rises and to turns to Ciras.

"Get them out of my sight," he says to the sergeant. "Disseminate and collect all combat effective forces. We're leaving." His counterpart nods and begins issuing commands to specific squad members. They begin hauling the prisoners for transport. I walk up to Revan's side, protests bubbling in my mouth.

"Brother," I begin.

He glances at me. "I know what you are going to say, Exon. We are all concerned for her wellbeing. It changes nothing."

My heart sinks. It was all for naught then. In desperation, I try to appeal to my brother's sense of practicality. "We approach the inner rings of iron. It is in our best _interests_ to muster all our strength."

"Can you sense her presence?" he asks pointedly.

A pause. "I cannot," I admit.

"Then we move out."

He turns away. Noctua looks on, eyes narrowed before following his lead. Ciras claps me on the arm while departing.

"We'll find her, Exon. The Boss Man knows what he's doing."

He does. That has never been in doubt. It is only his compassion or lack thereof that gives me cause for concern. With a heavy sigh, I move to follow the sergeant.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 1 hour, 59 minutes, 57 seconds before the Triumph_

We arrive at the Gallery of Heroes. The walls are broad reliefs of virgin white marble, carved with heroes from the Hyperspace Wars. The floor is an exercise in magnificence, a huge mosaic of interlocking swirls at whose centre was inlaid a giant emblem of the Holy Order.

But it is the statues that truly take the breath away. Perfect anatomical renditions of their subjects, crafted by special artisanal droids. There are pieces commissioned by Czerka, depicting their founder and other high ranking bureaucrats in jade. Too valuable to crush away though their name plaques have been removed. Newer pieces glorify members of the Nox family. Santagar, tall and regal. Desabel, confident and untamed. Alivia's statue is truly divine. Her beatific smile is perfectly captured in priceless malachite.

Such was the tragedy of the times. Covaine still held mineral wealth, enough to feed a thousand other worlds, and yet it is squandered. Funnelled into works of vanity by Czerka and its inheritors. If some catalyst could be found to revive the Republic's broken bureaucracy, to shake off the cloying influences of self serving institutions, then those treasures might yet be used.

"Beyond that point is an atrium." I point to the giant oaken doors in front of us, petrified wood carved with honour rolls. "From there is a winding stairwell to the Eyrie."

Revan acknowledges the information with a nod. The gallery is eerily silent. Primary power has been cut off and the gallery walls are bathed in gloomy shadows. There are no shouts of alarm or condemnation, no blips from our sensors to indicate unseen dangers. Perhaps the heretics have withdrawn completely, conserving their strength for the final battle. Still, the lack of any opposition is unsettling.

Revan turns to Ciras, the question plain on his face.

"Nothing on sensors," the sergeant reports. Revan glances at me.

"Brother?"

I close my eyes, letting my mind shift into the plane of the senses. The auras around me flare like waypoints in an endless ocean but beyond them is a gaping abyss. "I cannot sense anything," I report eventually. "If the enemy is here, they have concealed themselves beyond my sight."

"More likely they ran out of bodies to throw at us," Ciras remarks lightly. "After the children, they're probably reduced to harsh language."

My brother is not amused. "Be vigilant. If the heretics have any wits, they will have preserved significant strength for a final stand."

Ciras concedes the point. He gestures to Private Thervault and Private Mareon with quick chopping movements.

 _Scout the perimeter. Radio silence unless engaged._

His subordinates nod and begin an inspection of the various sub chambers. The rest of us wait in perfect defensive formation, ramrod stiff, guns trained upon all entrance points. Several heartbeats pass before Mareon completes the circuit. He appears from the left tunnel and flashes the _'_ all clear'signal. Everyone relaxes fractionally.

The wall next to Mareon explodes.

A shadow burst through the abyss, jaws wide and red blade outstretched. I see Mareon being pulled in. There is a scream, then smoking chunks of arms and feet fall out of the hole. His life signature fades. Thervault cuts out abruptly a moment later.

"Movement! All quadrants!" Noctua snaps.

She is right. I see black clad warriors spewing out from shadowed crevices. Hordes of them drop from scaffolding and stone adornments. Others leap out from curtains and underneath dusty coverings, bringing with them the frenzied chorus of damned souls. They caper across the floor like rats, moving faster than any mortal body should. The ambush is not unexpected, but its success is impressive. Not only did these deviants concealed their presence from our instruments, they managed to avoid my clairvoyant scrutiny.

"Defensive positions! First rank, fire!" Ciras shouts.

Too late. Several are already crashing into us, slashing and decapitating. One muscles through the breacher shields. Black talons grabs a Vindicator's helmet and snaps the neck with a sickening crunch. Another monster carves open the soldier next to him, letting his guts spill out in steaming chunks. Our allies die in droves. Each swing fells a Vindicator, shattering cohesion, threatening to collapse the shield wall completely. I grimace as a bisected warrior spatters my face with blood.

"Sister, give us space!" Revan snaps.

Noctua shouts a condemnation, hurling the tempest at the surging mass. Several tormentors are ripped asunder, their scarified flesh exploding in shivers of unleashed energy. The rest shriek and skulk back, leaving dozens of smoking bodies at our feet.

" _Darjetti_ ," Noctua snarls.

I nod grimly. There can be no doubt. _These_ are the true enemy, the disciples of Korriban who have never known the light of the Throneworld. Most of their jaws are already moist with hot blood. Several rattle the ripped spines of slain victims. Their eyes are hateful things, jaundiced bloodshot orbs that bely an almost infinite capacity for malice.

It is clear these warriors have not reformed or found an alternative outlet for their vices. Nevertheless, Alivia and Santagar have inducted this _foulness_ into their burgeoning army, accelerating the enclave's damnation. Another crime to add to their bloated tally.

An inhuman roar reverberates throughout the chamber, startling us. The voice is the death scream of worlds, rendered into a single terrible point of maddening intensity. The black sea parts, letting the newcomer stalk forward.

"Holy hell," I breathe. My eyes widen in recognition.

Morivar.

The warrior has always eclipsed everyone in size. Now he looks gargantuan, bloated with the incandescent rage their breed are famous for. The Sith Lord wields his gigantic lightsaber two handed, its crimson edge spitting and shimmering with barely constrained energies. His scarred, deformed face blazes with fury as he points his blade at Noctua.

"You are mine, witch!" Morivar bellows. "Your wretched song ends today!"

Noctua bares her teeth, her soul light flaring in open challenge. " _Ni Kelir kyr'amur gar_ , _jari'eyc solus,_ " she growls.

"Peace, sister," Revan whispers. Noctua glances at him. "He seeks to distract you from other targets. Do not play the enemy's game." She takes a breath and nods curtly.

"Wise words, _vod_."

Morivar utters something in his foul dialect. The black sea rumbles forward, howling.

"Reserve units, fire at will!" Ciras orders.

Plasma rifles and flamers roar into the charge. Our sister unleashes hell with them. Sith are liquefied or fall into paroxysms. Others stagger into our ranks and are sliced apart by weaving lightsabers.

It is not enough. Survivors push past the pain, _embracing_ it. They climb over their dead. Bludgeon each other in their desperation to reach us first. It is obstinate beyond the point of reason, but it is also the gift of Korriban. The absolute immersion of rage that pushes their bodies beyond physical boundaries.

And they are succeeding.

Shrieking obscenities butcher our ranks. A Sith cleaves through the soldier, separating torso from waist. Another shatters a breacher shield with a kick, killing the wielder instantly. Bones snap. Skulls are lopped off. The Sith are a primal force, ending lives with appalling speed.

It all pales compared to Morivar. He is an avalanche crashing down a mountainside, the aura of projected rage crashing like a bow wave across everything in his path. His blade slices diagonally, cutting through several breacher shields and decapitating their wielders. A balled fist sends more bodies flying through the air. He swipes his hand out and five – _five_ Vindicators – explode into fleshy confetti.

"Face me, witch!" He roars. Three more souls are extinguished, sliced apart in their audacity to confront him. "Your allies are dying! Your brothers cannot protect you! Will you sacrifice them all to save your miserable hide?"

Noctua ignores him. She focuses on culling the lesser warriors with reality splitting harmonics. Each word sends a Sith reeling, buying time for our rapidly depleting forces.

"Enough of your foulness," Morivar snarls. He charges, cutting down soldiers like useless chaffe.

A Vindicator whips out a pistol and shoots Morivar in the temple. Point blank. Morivar's staggers, turns and bull rushes the soldier for her impertinence. She is crushed flat into the wall, little more than a pulpy gory mass. He butchers two more Vindicators with a single swing. Cleaves the next shield apart and most of the wielder's torso with it. That leaves an opening, an exposed path to our most valuable asset.

Noctua turns towards Morivar, eyes narrowing at the newest threat.

"I _have_ you," he snarls.

He charges. I interpose myself in front of the Sith, swinging for his neck. Morivar blocks one handed, halting my attack with contemptuous ease. Looking between our blades, I feel my own heart misgive me. The Sith Lord's features are a waxy patchwork of muscle and sinew. One eye has popped to reveal black worms underneath.

"So the snake finally molts his skin," Morivar growls. He leans close, forcing me back several steps.

"You should have stayed hidden beneath your web of lies."

The brute heaves, throwing my blade wide and kicks me in the chest. Ribs crack. I feel a lung collapse as the blow sends me crashing through a pillar and into an oversized rendition of Desabel Nox.

The Sith Lord turns away from my groaning form, back towards his real prey. Noctua glowers at him. I feel her soul light flaring, preparing to condemn him to oblivion.

Morivar pounces, frightfully fast. In two strides, he crashes in front of Noctua and grabs her throat. She gasps as the brute hauls her up like a paperweight. Neck muscles cord and strain as Morivar begins crushing her windpipe.

"None of that."

Noctua gurgles a half mangled word of power. It is enough to pitch Morivar's head back with a concussive hammer blow. Blood leaks from nose and mouth.

"Insolent child," he declares.

Morivar tosses her up.

Noctua hurtles into the ceiling. She splinters it, shattering marble into a thousand spidery webs before thudding awkwardly onto the floor. The Keeper of Sanctity rolls onto her back, choking.

"Is…is that the best you've got?" she slurs.

Morivar spits bloody phlegm at her. He raises his lightsaber and brings it down like a guillotine.

His deathblow is intercepted by a glowing blue lightsaber.

The Sith turns, outraged at the interruption.

"Who dares-!"

Revan crushes his elbow into Morivar's nose.

The Sith grunts, shakes his head then surges back, snarling. He hammers at my brother, each blow leaving rents in the fabric of reality. Revan's blade shivers as it meets each strike. They come together again and again, a cacophony of slashes and ripostes, too fast for mortal eyes.

I see Revan side step a stinging thrust. He brings the tip of his blade against Morivar's shoulder then rips it to one side. The Sith Lord steps back. He clutches the wound, an expression of surprise on his ruined face.

"The Order's pups still have teeth, then," Morivar observes. He wipes away a gobbet of flesh from his forehead. "Show me. Show me what passes for fury among your misbegotten kind."

The Sith lashes out suddenly. A decapitation strike. Revan ducks, letting the blow pulverize a bust of Manford's sneering face. Morivar pursues relentlessly, like a bloodhound trying to sink teeth into prey.

"How does it feel, Jedi? To know you are no longer the pre-eminent force in this galaxy?" His taunts are supported by vicious blade combinations. Feints, thrusts and disembowelling strikes that push my brother back step by step. The Sith is a savage swordsman, but an accomplished one. Quick enough to parry and counter between attacks. Robust enough to ignore my brother's nipping blade.

"The galaxy changes, yet your kind do nothing but _hide_. Cowering behind the walls of your Throneworld. Siphoning prosperity like some obscene parasite."

Morivar's clawed hand rakes across my brother's chest, ripping through robes and drawing blood. Then he descends on his prey, slicing repeatedly, blinding the air around them with coronas of spilled force.

"We will not stand for it. Not anymore."

Revan says nothing. Caught within the merciless barrage, his own blade work ascends to a level bordering on the sublime. Their movements become an indistinguishable riot of parry, evade and riposte.

A well timed slash slices off Morivar's right ear. The Sith Lord reels and Revan leans in for a follow up attack. Morivar twists his own blade, pinning my brother's thrust down on the floor. He counters, bludgeoning Revan with a savage elbow. My brother crashes into the wall and sags to his knees. Morivar raises his blade high, preparing for the final execution.

"Your Order is _done_. Accept that fact, and _die_ with dignity!"

My brother rolls from the decapitation strike. He turns, lunges and shoves his blade deep into Morivar's gut. The Sith screams his contempt and kicks out. Revan crashes into a statue of Garon Jard, breaking the founder into useless rubble. His lightsaber is still wedged into the monster's stomach.

I lunge at this opening, barrelling Morivar into the wall. The Sith twists his shoulders wildly, trying to shrug me off like an annoying insect. I cling on with stubborn tenacity, pawing at his neck, trying to find purchase for a chokehold.

Noctua stalks towards us, face matted with blood and hair. She ducks a wild swing and tackles Morivar by the waist. Snarling, she twists Revan's lightsaber deeper into his gut. Morivar roars in outrage. The Sith Lord thrashes wildly, tapping into deeper reservoirs of fury. He gyrates, dragging us against rubble, ripping open new wounds.

It takes our combined weight to claw him down. A rock landslide tumbling to earth. We ram into the giant lacquered doors, splintering it and breaking through to the other side. Sunlight floods my eyes and I am temporarily blinded.

When my vision returns, it is a riot of thrashing black robes and gnashing teeth. Morivar snaps at me, almost ripping off half of my face. He slams his right arm on the marble floor, crushing Noctua repeatedly. My sister and I are scarcely less savage. We stab at neck and chest. Claw at eyes and throat. Mortal wounds all. Somehow, that is not enough. The frothing pit of rage the Sith draws from sustains him beyond mortal endurance. All the while, he is roaring threats.

"Unhand me, you _cravens_! I will gouge out your hearts for this! I will-"

 _"Enough."_

The words cut through the air. My swollen eyes narrow and I see Revan approaching. He is carrying something, something large. It takes me a moment to realize it is the broken head of Garon Jard.

"What in the-"

 _Crack._

For a moment, Morivar stares incredulously, uncomprehending. Then he realizes his skull has been split open. Revan swings again. The sound is like bark breaking off wood. The Sith collapses and Revan climbs on top of his victim. He raises Garon Jard's frowning head high with both hands.

"Wait...," Morivar burbles. "Wait!"

The face comes down, all three hundred pounds of stony disapproval. Bones fracture and break. Brain matter flies wildly, spattering our robes. My brother is relentless, pulverizing Morivar's head into paste.

By the twentieth strike, our foe is an unrecognizable mass of pulp and bone.

Revan drops the statue with a leaden finality and collapses, exhausted. I loosen my grip as well, panting on top of the corpse. It hurts to breathe. _Everything_ hurts. My vision is nonexistent. A whirlpool of blood while my head pounds on with concussive force. Despite all that, I am relieved.

We survived. By the Force, we _survived_. A battle of apocalyptic proportions, one fitting for the annals of Jedi records I think. Beside me, Noctua is chortling. An odd sound.

"Why are you laughing?" I grumble.

"Killed by a founder," she gasps. "Who says the dead can't be useful?"

A crass joke made in poor taste. Typical Mandalorian humour and yet I laugh all the same. After the nightmares endured to reach this point, it is a much needed catharsis.

"S-stop. I'm going to burst a lung."

"Brother. Sister. This is not the time."

The sharpness of Revan's voice unsettles me. Slowly, I wipe the blood from my face and open my eyes.

"Oh dear,"

A lightsaber is pointed straight at my face. And another, another, _another_. There is a _sea_ of them, their overlapping energy fields humming like swarms of angry insects. And wielding them are traitors. Around us, above the balconies. _Everywhere_.

These heretics have eschewed frugality, marking their robes as symbols of status. Gold and silver burnish their robes, woven into impossibly complex patterns. Sparkling rubies and amethysts hang about their necks and many wear elaborate hair pins that glisten in the pale light. All of them are eyeing us with the martial arrogance of warriors habituated to ascendancy.

One warrior stands above the rest. Above us all. Lord Santagar Nox, the proudest of his noble line leans against second floor railing, his pitiless gaze fixed upon us.

"The Order's finest," he declares tonelessly. "A gaggle of spies, thieves and assassins. How disappointing."

I curse inwardly. Our brawl had taken us into the atrium yet we completely neglected to notice its occupants. A price for trying to staying alive. Behind me, I hear Ciras and several surviving subordinates grumbling as they are prodded forward by blade tips.

"Lord Santagar. Forgive the intrusion." I say the words with a confidence I don't feel.

Santagar stares at me with reptilian eyes. "No," he says coldly. "You have preyed upon my hospitality long enough I think. And to do this on the eve of my child's birth." He shakes his head. "Have you no sense of decency?"

"I-"

"Be _silent_ ," he snaps. "Your forked tongue cannot save you now."

He takes a steadying breath and steps away from the railing. I see a dented metal impression where his hands were.

"Deceit may run in your blood, but not mine. No, I prefer to conduct my affairs in the open."

Santagar looks down towards a heretic. "Bring the girl."

"Girl?" I echo. Cold sweat falls down my brow as I hear the rattle of cold iron. Then the crowd parts and I see her. My stomach lurches as my worst fears are confirmed.

Mysteel is kneeling between two heretics, chained and collared. The left side of her face is bloody and has bruised an ugly red.

"Sister," I call out in dismay.

Mysteel raises her beautiful sapphire eyes, undiminished by injury. At the sight of us, her lekku curl in shame. She gives an embarrassed laugh.

"Surprise. They caught me."

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Ending with a cliffhanger this time. Please let me know if you enjoyed all the build up so far. =)_

 _Responses to reviews:_

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	16. Chapter 10 - Heresy Will be Punished Pt3

_**Chapter 10**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 1 hour, 42 minutes, 25 seconds before the Triumph_

Fate has chosen to mock us.

That is indisputable fact, as tangible as the manacles on Mysteel's wrist and the blade burning my throat. We had set out to punish these traitors. To drag them back to the Throneworld and present them for sentencing. And yet _we_ will be judged instead. The heretics are our tribunal now, with the Lord of the Eyrie presiding as judge, jury and executioner. A painful irony, I know.

Revan is correct. Santagar has had the dregs of the enclave bleed us dry, leaving his best to pick at our desiccated bodies. They stare down at us, leering from pulpits carved into the mighty Kashyyyk oaks that infest the atrium. I see traitors like Halyne, Vornax and Ezra among the crowd, Knights who assisted and bled at the pivotal campaign on Dxun. Then there are Santagar's personal praetorians, the _Iuravit Gladii_. They are the sword masters, the undisputed champions of martial exactitude.

Santagar stands above all others, impeccable in his righteousness. Even surrounded by his elite _,_ the Lord of the Eyrie manages to dominate all around him. His flawless muscles belie a perfect battle record, one who has never let opponents so much as mar his skin. A whispered word and the heretics will fall upon us like jackals. I hold no illusion of that outcome. Not even Noctua can hope to kill them fast enough with her voice. The Lord opens his mouth to speak. Revan interrupts him.

"Santagar Nox." he calls out.

Santagar stares at him, eyes narrowed. In that stare I see a stirring of respect. The recognition of true strength concealed behind a placid demeanour.

"Who are you?"

"Who I am is not important. My message is."

Santagar's eyebrows twitch at the answer. "The voice over the broadcast," he muses. "An amusing display of theatrics."

His voice grows cold. "Amusing but empty. Your misguided quest to mete out justice is over."

"I disagree, Santagar," Revan replies. "This does not end until you are all dead or in chains."

The heretics laugh, a rumbling cascade from tree to tree. Plants and trees shiver with mirth, pelting us with foliage. Mysteel palms her head with cuffed hands.

"Don't poke the bear, Rev. Don't _poke_ the bear!" she says, exasperated. "Why do men always need to swing their dicks around? Keep that for the bedroom!"

Santagar merely smiles, a curl in the lips that reveals the contempt festering in his soul.

"You are surrounded, three Knights against a hundred," he says smoothly. "Those toy soldiers dogging your heels aren't even worth considering a threat."

The Vindicators glare at Santagar darkly. Some swear under their breath but the threat of decapitation checks any foolhardy notions of retaliation.

"The fact is, we could kill all of you in an eye blink," Santagar continues. "But in the spirit of diplomacy, let us talk, one brother to another. Let us demonstrate that Knights can still achieve their goals through words, not swords."

Many heretics look displeased by these words. "Lord Santagar," one protests from a nearby perch. "These bastards _defiled_ the enclave! Kill them!"

Santagar looks at the speaker coldly. "And if we do that, it is proof that we are no better than the High Council. _Think_ before you speak, fool."

The grumbling diminishes. Revan looks on, silent. His lightsaber remains inactive at his side and Santagar takes it as a sign of assent.

"Good, let us begin with facts." The Lord of the Eyrie clasps hands behind back, his preferred style for pontificating. "The High Council has hounded us for thirty years. They have hurled army after army at our walls and we have sent them scurrying away every time. Furthermore, their ridiculous policies have done nothing but cause strife and mass defections. You only have to look at those flocking to our banner to see this."

His words ring true. Many traitors still wear old enclave heraldry like some perverse badge of honour. Arkania, Dantooine, even the Throneworld. An unholy congregation drawn from every corner of the galaxy.

"Here is the simple truth, their accusation of heresy is unfounded," says Santagar smoothly. "Atris _insists_ on painting us as a cabal of black hearted traitors. And yet all we want is to let the Jedi reclaim their pre-eminence in the galaxy. To let all enclaves prosper as we have."

There is clapping and shouts of sycophantic agreement. The bleating of sheep. "You forget yourself, Santagar," Revan says after the chorus dies down. "All your prosperity has come at the expense of the Republic."

He gestures to the opulence dominating the atrium. To the carved terraces gilded with golden leaf, to the stained glass murals hugging the sky dome. "The day your enclave raised arms in rebellion, you put your own interests above those you serve."

The enemy grumbles in protest. "Jedi are not servants, _boy_ ," a heretic calls out.

"Oh, but we are," replies Revan. "We serve at the convenience of every citizen. From the humblest farmer, to the highest noble. It is their wellbeing that we look out for, not our own. For _they_ , not _we_ are the Republic. The Order-"

Santagar raises a warning finger and the blade at Revan's throat rises higher, scorching skin. Mysteel lets out a gasp. She tries to rise but is shoved back to her knees.

"Careful," Santagar warns Revan softly. "Another outburst like that and my brother will carve you a new smile. You are here to serve greater goals, not satisfy your self-righteousness."

He points at Morivar's bloody remains. "Do not think for a moment you have achieved anything today, for this enclave is but a speck of our influence. If Atris does not cease her petty vendetta, we will be forced to enact extreme...retaliation. And trust me, that bitch does not want see what we are _truly_ capable of."

His words stir unease among the prisoners, especially me. It could be a bluff but I do not believe Santagar Nox makes empty threats. And despite our best efforts, my sister and I never truly discovered the depths of the heretic's operation. Santagar leans on top of his carved balcony, interlocking his fingers and appraising us with barely concealed contempt.

"This is my decision," he announces finally. "I will allow one of you to return to the Throneworld and relay my warning to the High Council. The rest will remain as...honoured guests until more official lines of negotiations can be established. It is a generous offer. Do not squander it."

He stares at Revan expectantly. We all do. This is the moment, the time when a single word can save or damn every soul in this chamber. My brother remains silent for a long time. When he speaks, it is with the calmness of the grave.

"The time for negotiations has long since passed, Santagar," Revan says quietly. "You and your ilk have had thirty years. A total of six hundred and nine requests for diplomatic reconciliation have been made, all of which your enclave has rejected. Only on the cusp of defeat do you feign interest."

With each word, an ugly tension unfurls into the air. The heretics' expressions darken, silent smugness giving way to murderous rage. Revan sees all this. He does not care.

"That grace period is now over. Your heresy ends today. Everyone complicit in your crimes will receive the justice that is due. That is all there is to say."

The finality of that statement is like a stake to the heart. There is a molten silence, punctuated by groans from our allies. Ciras is the most vocal of them.

"Well, you've killed us, Boss Man," he says, resigned. "You don't know how many prostitutes this is going to leave destitute."

"I'm sure they will weep for your demise," Noctua mutters darkly.

"I should hope so. My patronage is responsible for at least ten percent of the galactic economy."

I have to laugh at that but nobody else joins the mirth. Aggression bleeds from a sea of enemy faces. Fingers tap impatiently on the hilt of lightsabers. Santagar is _trembling_. Lips and knuckles are pulled taught and his skin is white with rage. Through sheer effort, the Lord keeps his composure.

"I try to extend an olive branch," he says hoarsely. "But you insist on spitting in my face."

He makes a chopping gesture. "On their knees. _Now_. Let us see how smug these fools are without heads."

His command is met by roars of approval. I feel a sharp pain bite my legs and I buckle to the floor. All the other prisoners are yanked down with equal brutality. Executioners line up beside us, blades flaring precariously close to our skin. They look up at Santagar, waiting for his command to strike. The Lord looks down at the scene, nostrils flaring with every breath. He points at Revan.

"Him first," Santagar orders. "His followers should see the price of impudence."

Revan is dragged to the forefront like an attraction at a meat market. Rough hands yank his head down and expose his pale neck. " _Kill, Kill, Kill,"_ cries a heretic. The chant quickly spreads amongst the spectators. Mysteel covers her mouth, eyes wide. The rest of us watch on, grim faced. The horde cheers as the executioner rests his blade on the skin then slowly raises it up high. I close my eyes, breath held tight.

I hear the swish of the lightsaber's cut.

There is a collective gasp…then nothing. For a moment, I am confused. Why did the crowd stop? Where are cries of adulation, the shrieks of grief? Slowly, I dare to open my eyes and feel my heart flutter.

The blade is frozen just above Revan's neck, trembling.

Santagar leans down from his perch, livid. "Well?" he snaps. "What are you waiting for?"

"M-my Lord," the executioner stutters. "I can't move."

Traitors glance around, suddenly wary. It starts as a hum, a subtle vibration that is just beyond the range of hearing. But then the enclave's very foundations start to shiver. The air thickens, polluted with an overspill of Force energy so virulent, even the ungifted can sense it. A moment of doubt flashes across Santagar's proud features. Something is coming. A cataclysm, the likes of which has never been witnessed by Jedi and traitor yet.

"What trickery is this?" Santagar demands.

"No trickery," Revan says calmly. "Merely, tactics."

I look up. The clouds have become the red of arteries – vivid and virulent, their innards glowing as if lit by fire. I see great arcs of electricity, as bloody as the skies above, slam and skip across the reeling cloudscape. The sight is captivating and repulsive. A vision of hell that should never be seen.

The sky dome begins splintering, cracking like the snap of bone. Glass and metal shards fall like rain, eliciting shouts of alarm. Revan's executioner reels back as a giant shard bifurcates his right arm. He screams, clutching the bloody stump.

"I wish to thank you, Santagar," Revan continues. "for introducing us to your praetorians."

He stands calmly amidst the chaos. The Force is screaming now. Its infinite potential bubbles beneath the veneer of sanity, struggling to slip free of its boundaries.

"Allow me to introduce you to ours."

The dome shatters.

A tempest descends, shrieking with molecule splitting force. It buffets the atrium, slicing through stone, ripping tree trunks and pillars from their foundation. Columns crash into traitors and pulverize several unfortunates into bloody chunks. A trunk of petrified wood shatters against Santagar's skull, felling him. _Iuravit Gladii_ roar orders but by now the ground is splitting under our feet. There are shouts of confusion, screams of outrage as rank after rank of warriors fall to their knees.

"This-this is impossible!" shouts a heretic. "No one can command the tides of the Force like this! _No one!_ "

He is wrong. Amidst the spinning vortex, I can make out a feminine figure. She is plummeting gently, buoyed by the howling winds but untouched by its ferocity. There can be no doubt of the power pulsing within her delicate frame, a power found only among Noctua's rare breed.

Amarinthe, the Keeper of Sanctity speaks through the cacophony, amplifying her voice to a deafening crescendo.

" _Prepare yourselves heretics_ ," she shouts. " _The Republic's wrath falls from the heavens!_ "

With her announcement come black armoured figures, sliding down the shattered dome from grappling lines. They arrive with salvos of plasma rifles, blasters and gatling lasers. Many are roaring threats and war cries like lunatics. Alpha Wing One then, only that squad would attempt something so unhinged. An involuntarily smile creeps on my lips.

A plasma bolt punctures my gaoler's skull, reducing him into a molten heap. Other heretics around me fall down as if scythed, harvested in a spilled line of plasma fire, spattered blood and gobbets of meat. Survivors instinctively collapse to their hands and knees only to be cut down by the sustained volleys, finishing those who avoided the initial chest and head shots.

Alpha Wing One converges around us, breacher shields raised, patching the holes in our diminished ranks. My saviour lands between me and Ciras. The newcomer is unmasked, with hair as red as an open wound. It hangs limply from a scalp soaked in battle fervour.

"Sergeant Ava," I remark. "Our thanks."

The Vindicator stares at me, eyes as punishing as the dead of winter. They gleam with a disturbing enthusiasm whenever scrotums are mentioned, a subject she brings up with alarming frequency. "Just don't make a habit out of it," Ava says lightly, slapping me on the shoulder. "I might not be sober next time.

She turns to her counterpart bearing an insouciant grin "That's three now, Ciras. You owe me a beer." Ciras looks equally relieved and frustrated.

"So what? You owe me _ten,_ " he protests.

"Oh, eat a dick."

Bulky Vindicators crash around Mysteel's gaolers. Combat hammers slam into the surprised heretics with frightful speed. Bones snap. Bodies squelch and liquefy, mutilated by horrific hyperkinetic impacts. The victim's shrieks are muffled, overpowered by the roar of battle cries and growling exoskeletons.

Mysteel capitalizes on the carnage. Our sister knees her Vurk captor in the groin, letting his flailing lightsaber slice through her chains. She wrestles the weapon away and kicks him over the terrace. The Vurk shrieks as he is sent plummeting to his death.

Then Mysteel is off, dodging weapons fire, hopping and and leaping onto multiple platforms to ascend higher. Her trajectory is unmistakable.

"She's going after Lord Santagar!" Someone shouts. "Kill her!"

A coven of Consulars redirect their ire. They draw deep within their rotten cores and unleash undiluted hate towards the Mysteel. Red coils of lightning shrieks and for a moment, it looks like Mysteel is utterly consumed by a conjured maw. But the energy doesn't touch her. It _dissipates_ , sputtering into useless static from a cascading wave.

"What-?!"

The Consulars whip around and see Amarinthe floating down towards them, hands outstretched. As one, they cry out in rage and unleash more destruction. The Keeper of Sanctity raises a palm. Sickly light ricochets off her Aegis and envelopes one of the attackers. The Consulars recoil as their companion is reduced to charred ash.

"I don't believe it," one gasps.

"And that is why you failed," Amarinthe remarks. Her expression is bemused, like one that had just witnessed a child's tantrum.

She claps her hands.

The Consulars slam together, dragged within an irresistible singularity. They don't even have time to scream before exploding. Body parts erupt in all directions, raining down the atrium in a blistering hail of fleshy confetti. Heretics scream, terrified.

With that attack, the Keeper of Sanctity finally comes to rest besides Noctua, panting. She looks diminished from her exertions. The raging torrent of her aura has reduced to a dull glow. Noctua looks at her counterpart, amused.

 _"Vod. Jate oya'karir?"_

Amarinthe frowns, brushing platinum blonde locks from her face. Her eyes are like amethysts, hard and unyielding. "It was fine, sister," she says breathlessly. The Keeper begins resetting stray strands into her styled bun. "And please, stop using _Mando'a_. You have had more than enough time to assimilate."

By now, the Lord of the Eyrie is rising slowly to his feet, barely cognizant. He is wiping bloody strands of hair from his face when a lightsaber comes to rest at his throat. Startled, he turns to see Mysteel standing next to him smiling her perfect smile. She throws him a wink.

"Isn't irony a bitch?"

 _Iuravit Gladii_ move towards their leader but are pushed back by nearby Vindicators.

"Back off!" They shout through amplified speaker units. "Lower your weapons and stand down!"

The praetorians snarl and brandish their lightsabers but the threat of their leader at sword point gives them pause. They remain immobile like caged animals, faces burning with impotent belligerence. The rest of the atrium is frozen, stunned at the sudden reversal in fortunes.

I cannot help but feel pride in this accomplishment. The shock and awe maneuver has been executed to perfection. With minimal forces, we have torn open the enemy's throat while sustaining minimal casualties, a qualified success. And yet it will all be for naught unless the final prize is claimed.

"Primary target in sight," reports the lead sergeant over our comm channel. He glances down to our position. "Orders?"

"Approach with caution," replies Revan. He stares straight up, watching for any sign of deceit. "Nullify and apprehend."

"Understood."

The ground forces watch with bated breath. It all comes down to this. The final capitulation. Vindicators approach warily as ordered, targeting lasers flashing across Santagar's face. Hammers and vibroblades are raised, taut and ready. The sergeant approaches Santagar, brandishing shackles and a Force collar.

"Santagar Nox," he growls through emitter feeds. "raise your hands and turn around."

Santagar makes no attempt to comply. He is completely still. Frightfully so. I share a worried look with Revan. The operation rests on a knife's edge now. One wrong word and everything could tip towards disaster. Mysteel nudges her blade closer to his neck.

"Up, up Santagar," she says. "Don't make me poke you with my happy stick."

Slowly, so slowly the Lord of the Eyrie raises his head. Black eyes stare out from alabaster skin. Written across his face is the purest most consummate anger I have ever seen. It is a fury purer and deeper than the blackest pits Morivar could draw from. No, this is wrath. Wrath in its truest undiluted form.

He lets out an inhuman cry.

The air splinters. The Assault Vindicators stumble, their massive exoskeletons pushed back by the inferno of manifest will. Mysteel is tossed up as well but somersaults and lands gracefully. They look at Santagar in disbelief as he draws his weapons.

"You will not have us," he snarls. "You will _never_ have us."

The Vindicators rumble forward, weapons growling. Santagar lets his killing edges slice out. He decapitates the first attacker without facing him. His other blade deflects a plasma shot point blank. Then the blade thrusts, hallowing out the wielder's skull. More soldiers leap and fire at the Lord but their attacks are rebuffed with the same contemptuous ease as their brethren. They tumble away, shredded into lumps of armored flesh. Once in motion, Santagar is never still. His blades whip and weave, cutting without any effort. Mutilating soldiers with an efficiency and grace that belies his ferocity.

The last soldier is gutted and discarded. Mysteel barely has time to raise her blade as Santagar's ire falls on her.

"Kill them!" Santagar roars. "Kill them all!"

"Mysteel!"

We are beset before I can finish uttering her name. Heretics leap at us with frightful speed, slashing and gougeing at the shield wall. Force shriven punish us with blistering salvos of lightning, firing with impunity from their lofty perches. Amarinthe staggers, her Aegis flaring from multiple impacts.

 _"Oritsir!"_ she snarls before shaking her head. "I mean, fuck!"

Vindicators are pushed back by the blistering tempo, forced to fire sporadically behind shield slits. Revan and I push ourselves to the forefront. We cut and weave, desperately fending off heretics who fight with the frightful assuredness of veterans. Blades flash in electric coronas as they match our every attack with a frenzied set of counters and parries. Ciras looks less than pleased by this turn of events.

"Dammit," he mutters. "Why can't anything go according to plan?"

Ava does not share that sentiment, laughing as the carnage erupts around her. Ethereal fire streaks past her exposed face, any of which could have melted her skull. Yet she is grinning like a loon, firing with commendable discipline. It is small wonder Ava Onasi has always been charitably described as insane.

"You could look less happy about being knee deep in shit," Ciras scolds.

"Why?" Ava retorts. "I live for this."

She turns to Revan. "So what's the plan, Boss Man?"

The expression on my brother's face is unequivocal. Even as he fends off traitor after traitor, his eyes are fixed on the unfolding conflict between Santagar and Mysteel.

"Take Santagar Nox alive," he says between parries. "Kill anyone who gets in our way, but take him alive."

He spares a glance towards us.

"Brother. Sisters. This is the final test. Steel yourselves, for Corvaine's heresy ends _now_."

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 1 hour, 34 minutes, 25 seconds before the Triumph_

War. The brutal tumult of natural selection. Civilization in its most primal state.

The violence unleashed within the atrium is appalling. Flesh bursts open with each swing, letting smoking hunks of muscle and sinew spatter against the walls. Blood squirts from severed limbs, aerosolized by heat. Then the mutilated bodies thud to the ground, thrashing and screaming.

"Into them!" Ciras shouts. "Push through these bastards!"

Our allies perform admirably, goaded by the same urgency beating in our chests. Plasma shots explode with expert precision, exposing fused ribcages, unspooling brain matter on the sodden dirt.

But the heretics are winning. On such open ground, the enemy has no difficulty embroiling us with their most potent devastation. Consulars summon primordial energies, weaving and sending them crashing into our defences. An entire heavy weapons squad explodes, reduced to spatters of blood and organs.

The heretics are employing mighty powers indeed, steeped in the same forbidden lore that the High Council had hoped to bury. It is not hard to see why. Raw Force energy unspools around us in obscene ways. I see colors never conceived, multi hued madness that shreds realspace in a tempest of seething fire. Soldiers twist apart on contact, disarticulated and defiled. Mortal lungs shriek as their skin is lacerated in a thousand cuts and chest cavities explode.

I must credit Noctua and Amarinthe for our continued existence. Even amidst the raging torrent, their esoteric Aegis shine brighter than solar flares. Think about that. Two souls warding off a hundred. Were it not for their bubble of sanity, the raw Force would have rendered us to gibbering slime.

But the heretics are bleeding us, at range and in melee. Warriors clog our forces like tarpits, killing two,three, five Vindicators for every millimetre of ground we gain. It is not a sustainable rate of attrition.

"Brother, we cannot win like this," I say grimly. A blade slices for Revan's face. My blade bats it aside as my brother eviscerates the attacker's head. Glancing to the highest pulpit, I can see Santagar and Mysteel's furious battle unfolding. Lightsabers shriek against lightsaber. Force attacks are summoned, powers so potent they leaves permanent wounds in realspace. I desire nothing more than to lend her our strength, but the opportunity is diminishing fast.

"These bastards will bleed us dry before we can reach Santagar."

Revan nods, but his attention never wavers from the wider carnage. He is calculating, studying the ebb and flow of movement, the distribution of enemy forces. My brother is truly a savant of war, clinical to the point of detachment. Mingled blood spatters across his face, but he continues to formulate battle scenarios, playing out his theoretical actions and opponent reactions. No one else I know is capable of such calm deductions under these deplorable conditions.

"There," my brothers says eventually. He points to a minor terrace supported by winding Endor oak. Ezra is standing there with her husband Fallion. They benefit from high ground, scorching our forces with pinpoint blasts of lightning.

"Those traitors occupy a bottleneck leading to the highest dais," Revan continues. "Get through them, and we can breach their flank before they compensate for the misalignment."

I frown, judging the trajectory and effort to navigate the physical obstacles. "That space is too narrow for a speartip."

"But wide enough for the two of us," Revan replies. He turns to Amarinthe. She immediately senses his attention and glances at him.

"Brother?"

 _"Gedet'ye ram'or ogir. She'eta enaabe gaht wasuur teh cuun taap."_

She looks to where he is pointing and frowns. "By the Throneworld," she grumbles. "I can't concentrate that far _and_ save our hides. I'm a Keeper, brother. Not a peddler of miracles."

Noctua spares a moment from her slaughter to glare at Amarinthe. " _Do it_ ," she orders sternly. "Let me worry about our allies,"

Amarinthe notes her sister's tone and relents. She steps besides forward and points a finger at the target. A vein on her temple throbs. I feel her soul surge like a volcano, straining to break the bonds of reality. The gossamer veil between planes twists and rips apart, letting raw Force spill out in a roaring tsunami. It crashes against Fallion, breaking through his considerable defences and consumes him.

Bones snap. Organs boil and rupture. The heretic contorts, crushed by the Keeper of Sanctity's unfathomable strength of will. The skin bubbles and bursts, revealing weeping orifices.

Ezra shrieks as she is drenched in pieces of her lover, clothing and organs alike. She whips her head at Amarinthe.

"I'll kill you, you monstrous bitch! I'll-"

Ezra starts convulsing, eyes rolling violently upwards. I can see brain matter leaking out of her ears. Spittle foams out of her mouth and the traitor falls into a twitching mess.

Amarinthe lowers her hands, face taut from Force overspill. A trembling sleeve wipes away the blood dripping from her nose. "There is your opening brothers. Go."

Revan nods in thanks. "Keep the heretics occupied, sister. Brother, with me."

With that, we leap, crashing wetly on the newly soaked platform. Then we are running up the oak, fighting to stay ahead of enemy fire. We vault several large trunks, knock over the two heretics on a connecting pulpit then leap onto a support beam to reach the upper dais. From here, it is a straight sprint towards the Lord of the Eyrie and his _Iuravit Gladii_.

Even as we close the distance, I can see that Mysteel is fighting for her life. She slashes furiously, struggling to keep pace with Santagar's mauling attacks. I have never seen her move this quickly. Her blade shivers like a hornet's wing, darting to keep pace with Santagar's blades. She ducks and weaves like water, contorting just enough to avoid each slash.

It is not enough. Santagar's craft is of a different majesty – the disinterested pursuit of martial perfection. Dual lightsabers weave in synchronous harmony, deflecting each attack with almost lazy disdain. His control is immaculate, exceeding even the most accomplished of conductors.

"Haste, brother," I urge.

Their exchange is so furious, I almost miss the finishing blow. Mysteel attacks with a lunging thrust but she over-commits her weight. Santagar throws her thrust wide with a clockwise slash. His parry is simultaneously followed with a pinpoint stab from his left. The blade pierces the energy mesh protecting Mysteel's chest, and slides straight between her breasts. Mysteel's eyes widen. She chokes out in surprise.

"Mysteel!" I shout.

Santagar regards his victim with clinical distaste. Blood dribbles out from her quivering lips.

"Brave," he remarks. "Brave but foolish."

The Lord of the Eyrie withdraws the blade and she crumbles to the floor. He gives Mysteel a disdainful nudge of his boot, to push her off the balcony. She falls into the seething mass of blades below and disappears from sight.

Anger pumps through my veins. A rage so pure, it blots out all sense and purpose. I let out a roar. The _Iuravit Gladii_ waiting to intercept us flinch. They can sense my fury but it is nothing compared to my brother's. He points at the heretics, condemning them to death. He condemns their master to an even worse fate.

A unified counterattack could have halted our charge. The _Iuravit Gladii_ could have unleashed their fell powers and our assault would have disintegrated. But they squander it. They hesitate and for a moment, their treacherous hearts know fear. True fear.

When we crash into them, it is with hyperkinetic force. Terrifying power, terrifying speed, terrifying Force infused strikes. Our blades tear into them, _ripping_ through mangled armor and torn flesh. Heretics shriek as there are disarticulated. Chunks of limb, guts and offal fly in all directions, showering the atrium in tainted blood.

I have never moved as fast. I have never cleaved as strongly. My muscles, honed and Force infused, have never responded as perfectly. Killing is the oldest art in history, and the Order has had lifetimes to excel at it.

It is not our primary vocation, that is true. Jedi are bred to prevent wars, not start them. But when it becomes necessary, our Order do not treat combat as a duty, but as a science. We codify our opponents. We learn their techniques, their idiosyncrasies, their vulnerabilities.

Revan is exposing the heretics' weaknesses with frightful alacrity, rending bones, rupturing organs with each swing. A palm slams into nearest sword master with concussive discharge. The human's skull shivers and explodes, stunning his allies. His sword wades in, slicing off a Zeltron's hand before lopping off the head. He turns away a lunging Sullustan, splitting the heretic in half. A vicious slash disembowels a Vurk. Then another, another, _another_. Kill, maim, block, slice, bite and die.

This is how my brother punishes treachery. This is how it feels to die under the most unrelenting, terrifying force in the universe. Carnage. The visitation of death in the form of blade, Force and unyielding will. It doesn't matter how many heretics try to fight. It doesn't matter what convoluted schemes or whispered words of power they summon. Revan is going to kill you. To kill you all.

My brother shoves his latest victim away and breaks through the cordon. I try to follow him, but a Nautolan intercepts me. She slashes and whirls in a punishing dervish, forcing me to fall into a defensive rhythm. Frustrated, I can only watch as my brother point his lightsaber at Santagar before raising the hilt to his forehead.

A challenge.

"Santagar Nox! Judgement is upon you!"

The Lord of the Eyrie raises his own blade in salute, more mocking than respectful.

"No man can judge me," he says smoothly. He begins swirling his blades in lazy arcs. "You and the Throneworld will regret ever making the attempt,"

The first blows ring with an ominous dirge as the two combatants begin their lethal dance. Santagar's eyes glitter with amusement as he picks up his murderous tempo.

"But by all means. Let us see who is worthy of inheriting the galaxy."

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _15 days, 1 hour, 12 minutes, 57 seconds before the Triumph_

Both sides can sense the end.

Even as exhaustion wracks our muscles, we pound at each other, attacks infused with the animosity reserved for sworn enemies. Sergeants and heretic sub commanders curse and roar warcries through hoarse throats, squeezing every iota of energy out of their bodies. The effort is more akin to the febrile thrashing of a dying animal. A blind, unfettered fury, with the hope that more damage is being inflicted on the enemy than themselves.

Despite being knee deep in dead, the surviving heretics fight well, ridiculously so. I do not think it is courage that holds them however, for they have no conviction save for the accumulated arrogance garnered from decades of treachery. No, in their bones they know the enclave is lost. Even if they prevail against us, their sanctum will wither under the weight of our combined vandalism. Corvaine will return into the Republic's paralyzed lap, one way or another. Their only solace is to inflict as much punitive damage to their killers as possible.

Even as we rip each other to shreds, none can ignore the devastation unleashed by its two leaders. They move like something out of legend, both combatants mauling the other with devastating parries, ripostes and slashes. The air shrieks around the duelists, blazing from where their lightsaber scythed and burn. This is the fulcrum, the duel that balances all our fates on the precipice.

The sole surviving _Iuravit Gladii_ is tenacious, pushing me back every time I try to aide my brother. She seems less interested in killing me than preventing my intervention. That is the point of course. Santagar _must_ defeat my brother one on one, such is his conceit. Only in beating him in a duel can the Lord of the Eyrie hope satisfy his misplaced feeling of superiority.

And superior he must feel. Santagar's magnificent silver robes glitter and swirl with each snaking thrust. His two blades whir in inconceivable arcs, hounding my brother like a multi headed hydra. The Lord blocks a mid thrust and counters with a vicious strike simultaneously, nearly severing Revan's head. My brother staggers backwards, giving ground. Santagar stalks him, dark eyes glittering with malice.

"Look, _look_ at the devastation you have wrought," he spits. "Your wretched High Council will make the entire galaxy a charnel house given the chance."

He unleashes a flurry of brutal jabs. They punch through Revan's guard, peeling off skin and robes with vicious ease. My brother suffers the punishment with the silent stoicism bred into his bones. He plants his feet, slapping each blistering thrust away with brutal sweeps of his lightsaber. Tiny flecks of broken glass flutter with the accompanying shockwaves. They sparkle like blood drops from the fires rampaging unchecked amongst us.

"We would have made the Jedi _glorious_ again. You preach about serving, but it is _we_ not Atris who serves the Order's best interests!"

He thrusts high and low, attempting to skewer. Revan bats them away with a figure of eight slash, lightning quick. The parry imbalances Santagar and he barely manages to sidestep the counter thrust. Suddenly, it is the Lord of the Eyrie who is on the defensive, back pedalling furiously to avoid Revan's blade. It flows like a shard of starlight, swift and irresistible.

A cut lands on Santagar's bare chest, leaving a livid gash. Santagar eyes widen in surprise. He leaps back, staring at the wound with a curl of his lips. A hit. The perfect warrior suddenly feels a spark of doubt. Revan presses his attack, grim faced.

"You serve nothing but your own ego, Santagar. I only have to look at the monuments your followers raise and recognize it for what they are. Self aggrandizement."

Santagar's nostrils flare. Revan thrusts and the Lord rams his blades down in a cross down block. Stumbling, Revan's face whistles to meet Santagar's knee. It connects with a sickening crack of cartilage. Revan reels, nose splayed to one side. He swipes blindly, fending off a decapitation strike through sheer instinct.

"I will not be lectured by a hypocrite like you," Santagar growls. "Not when you slave away for a Grand Master who _flaunts_ her own daughter in the open."

He twirls a complete circuit, slicing two-four- _six_ times in succession - too quick for the eye. Blades break through Revan's guard, cutting open skin like suet. Bit by bit, my brother is pushed back, overwhelmed by the Lord's immaculate bladework.

"Where is the justice there, hmmm?" Santagar demands. "Why hasn't Atris put _her_ in chains?"

Revan says nothing. Perhaps he thinks the question is ludicrous. Perhaps there is no good answer to that hypocrisy.

"Your silence is deafening, brother. It is also my vindication."

They fight on in a furious cacophony, letting their blades voice out an ominous dirge. Powdered stonework swirls amidst broken rubble, buoyed by the irresistible speed of their blades. I can hear muffled grunts and cursing from both warriors as they push each other to the very edge of endurance.

The flurry grinds to a sudden halt as their blades lock. Sweat and blood steams off their faces. Both are panting hard. They jostle for leverage, faces millimetres apart.

"I sensed your anger, brother, when I gutted that silly Twi'lek," Santagar goads. "Could it be your feelings for her were less than professional? Are you seeking revenge for your lover's death?"

He doesn't give Revan time to answer. The Lord heaves, forcing my brother several steps back. He slips and slides on a puddle of blood. Before Revan can fully regain balance, Santagar charges him, eager to end the contest. "Have no fear. You will join her very soon. When I-"

He brings both blades crashing down, staggering Revan.

"Cut your-"

Another swing.

"Ugly head-"

Another swing.

" _Off your_ _shoulders_."

Santagar shouts the last words as he finally knocks Revan's blade to one side. Santagar raises his blades for the deathblow, an exultant shout on his lips.

A woman's cry pierces the atrium. It cuts through the cacophony, over explosions and breaking bone. It is the sound of someone in the throes of childbirth. For just a moment, Santagar's is distracted. He glances backwards, letting his guard falter ever so slightly.

"Alivia?" he gasps.

Revan pounces, letting his blade sweep up. It bites deep into Santagar's pale arm, narrowly missing a vital artery. The Lord stifles a curse as Revan steps in, nipping with his blade. The blows are blocked but the Lord of the Eyrie grunts as he is shoved back.

"Remember your wife's voice, Santagar," Revan growls. "It is the last you will hear of her,"

Anger flashes through Santagar's features. He surges back at him, kicking the balance away from Revan's leading leg. Bones fracture, the fizzing of energy arcs narrowly missing its mark.

"You will not have her," he snaps. "I will _die_ before you lay a finger on my wife!"

Santagar presses, carving through the meat of my brother's arm. Revan gasps, ducks a brutal thrust at his chest and sidesteps a slash that shears off three adjoining pillars. Santagar hounds him relentlessly, blades whipping in glittering arcs, slashing for vital organs.

"The Throneworld is so _isolated_ ," he taunts. "And the tighter Atris squeezes, the more enclaves will slip through her fingers. Things will only deteriorate."

The Lord's attacks are fused with a frenetic energy now, replacing perfection with savagery. Revan meets this fury with vicious exactitude. They thunder across the podium, each step followed by the echoing clash of warriors among them. The impact of their blows carry such heft, it shakes the very ground. They bite into each other, cursing, gasping, pushing their bodies to give just a little bit _more_.

A stray explosion knocks them apart momentarily. Both combatants scramble to their feet and stare at each other, sucking in lungfuls of breath. Blood streams from every pore in their body. They can barely lift their blades, so close are they to the breaking point.

"Surrender, Santagar," Revan declares. "Surrender, and accept your punishment."

Santagar laughs, more incredulous than angry. "My knees do not bend, brother. Neither will my wife's. You have _no idea_ what we have planned for the High Council. Atris will rue the day she took her seat."

Both combatants begin circling. From their postures, I can tell each only has enough energy for a final strike. They shift weight onto their leading foot, gauging distance, looking for the twitch of muscle.

Without warning, they lunge simultaneously, blades poised for a final decisive attack.

The moment seems to stretch for an eternity. It is as if the skeins of fate are thickening, slowing the passage of time in order to capture this tableau. In that warped perception, I realize that Santagar' lightsabers are microseconds faster. They are poised to slice through Revan's neck just before my brother can connect. Then my brother will fall and he will be dead. I shout with horror at the realisation. Shout as Santagar's lightsabers inch closer to Revan's vulnerable neck. Closer….closer.

Another shriek erupts from the Eyrie, louder than the first. Santagar hears it, spoiling his irresistible strike. It is a minuscule hesitation but it is enough.

Revan cleaves down, shearing the Lord of the Eyrie in two.

Santagar screams. I see a burning arm, followed by a set of legs flop wetly on the slick marble. The Lord himself crashes in front of Revan's feet, little more than a shrieking head attached to a twitching torso.

We all see him laid low. Every Vindicator, every heretic. My sisters and Vindicators exult while the traitor's howl in despair. Grown men and women break down sobbing. The sound is like a dam finally bursting from its foundations. Scores drop their weapons or flee, only to be cut down in droves. My opponent simply stops moving and drops her guard. She practically leans into the thrust that puncture her heart.

In minutes, the heretics are utterly broken, their dishonour washed away in rivers of blood.

Soldiers cheer. They clasp hands and raise weapons in salute to our valour. I cannot bring myself to join their celebrations. The victory feels hallow. Bought at the expense of one of our own. Could Mysteel have survived? Could she-.

Ciras and my sisters approach. They walk past me, over the heaps of mutilated praetorians and stare at Santagar's broken body. Even cut and broken, the Lord refuses to yield. He is crawling on one arm, enduring what must be excruciating pain to reach the stairwell. The effort leaves a smear of boiling blood and steaming guts. Above us all, Alivia cries in agony, oblivious to the shell of a man her husband has become.

"Rrrrgh. Alivia!" Santagar screams. "I'm coming for you! _Alivia!_ "

They look at each other, lost for words. It is a harrowing scene, more pitiful than sad. Some may even admire this indomitable spirit, but I cannot find it in me to do so.

The fact is that Santagar Nox has lost everything in the name of love. His home. His pride. His name. All of these things will be extinguished. Buried and burnt in rolls of crumbling parchment beneath the Throneworld's catacombs. It is the ultimate price for heresy but Atris is not a forgiving sort. Ciras steps forward, raising his pistol to end Santagar's suffering. Revan places a hand on his arm and shakes his head.

The sergeant looks incredulous. "This is no way for anybody to live, Boss Man."

"Where Santagar's going, he will be doing precious little of that."

Ciras recoils at my brother's next words. "Take him. Stabilize him. One way or another, the heretic will repent at Atris' feet."

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Phew! And with that Santagar Nox finally falls. This concludes the first major battle of this story. There is still the matter of Alivia that Revan has to deal with and that promises to be an interesting encounter. I hope everyone enjoyed this mini arc. Were you surprised by all of the events? Please let me know your thoughts on everything that happened. I love to hear reader feedback. Thanks!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 ** _RevJohn1171_** _chapter 13. March 27, 2018_

 _Thanks! I was hoping the reveal would be surprising. Good to know it worked. =)_

 _ **Just a Crazy-Man**_ _chapter 9 . March 11, 20178_

 _Thanks!_

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 9 . March 7, 2018_

 _Thanks, I hope you like this one as well!_


	17. Chapter 11 - The Birth

_**Chapter 11**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _14 days, 21 hours, 14 minutes, 56 seconds before the Triumph_

The process of consolidation feels hollow, a quagmire of logistics that is necessary but never appreciated. Injuries are treated. Casualties and resource expenditure must be catalogued. But paramount among our efforts is retrieving allied dead. Their mortal remains must be sanctified so future burial rites may be performed.

To say that the Holy Order and Republic Army have strained relations is to trivialize generations of mutual animosity. But honour is a shared language among our institutions and their comportment in battle today demands my respect.

Muffled shouts and blaster shots still ring out from the lower levels – traitor Jedi who still refuse to see reason. They are proving tough to eliminate, though the end will come within the hour. Fools. In resisting redemption, they have consigned themselves to a honourless death. Their putrefying bodies will not receive an iota of respect, certainly not the privilege of a shallow grave.

My patrol takes me past reclamation officials, agents from the Republic's soul sucking bureaucracy. They stalk over piles of broken combat droids, taking notes and picking at the precious salvage like vultures. More will come and the thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Corvaine will soon be classified compliant. With that designation comes the talons of the Republic Administration. They will swoop in like some famished infant, ingesting every last vein of ore until Corvaine is a withered husk. And when the planet has been hallowed out, the cradle of civilization will move onto its next victim. Its gluttony can never be appeased but intervention would shock the patient to an abrupt death. Such is the fate of a crumbling superpower.

Noctua is among them. Her dried clan fetishes stand in stark contrast to the smooth, pressed sea of uniforms. A civilian could mistake her for some feral tribesman, sucked out of time and cursed to wander a cold pampered population. It is an unworthy analogy, but the unwashed savage is an image my sister proudly cultivates.

She hobbles between stacks of salvage, confiscating bone dry parchments and esoteric objects that the agents have already procured. Administration officials are infamously miserly but not one of them raises their voice in protest. How could they? Sheep do not challenge the wolf.

Noctua turns at my approach.

"Su cuy'gar, vod," I call out.

The Keeper of Sanctity chuckles. It is a wet growling sound, more akin to an animal's purr. "Your accent is atrocious, _vod,_ " she declares. The bemusement in her voice robs her insult of venom. "But I appreciate the effort nonetheless."

She begins shuffling for the exit, gesturing for me to follow. I trail behind two paces, respectful of her status but mostly to accommodate her awkward gait. Knights with her level of infirmity are normally barred from active service. I do not need to explain why she is exempt.

"I have scoured through the _aruetti's_ artifacts."

"Is anything salvageable?"

"Few and far between," Noctua replies. "Some will be taken to our vaults for further dissemination. Most will be destroyed."

My heart sinks. "Must it come to that?" I ask sadly. "With each relic lost, our link to the past grows more tenuous."

Noctua halts abruptly and turns to face me. It is a careworn face, burdened by secrets and tragedy beyond her years. Intricate Mando'a scripture peeks out from layers of unruly black locks. Each inked symbol is a priceless link to her dying culture.

"I cherish history above all, _vod_ ," she says quietly. "But our circle will err on the side of caution _._ Moral threats are virulent and must be contained."

She rummages through her pouch and shows me a crumbling scroll. "These relics the _aruetti_ hoarded...they are tainted simply by proximity to _Darjetii_. And lest we forget, the arch heretic was corrupted by one."

It is hard to refute her wisdom. "Atris is right about one thing," I remark. "A moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of heresy."

"And for thirty years, we have been paying for that folly," Noctua growls. We resume our slow trek down the halls, past the ruined marble columns and scorched paintings. From time to time she pauses to scoop up a broken artifact.

"What is Mysteel's condition?" I ask at length. "Has Amarinthe communed with you yet?"

She glances at me, irritated. This has been my sixth attempt testing her patience.

"No."

"It has been _hours_ , sister. Surely-"

"What would you have me say, _vod_?" she grumbles. "Our _ad'ika_ is in the Red Dream. Either Amarinthe drags her from the brink or she does not. But a hole in the chest is not conducive to survival."

My shoulders sag. "There is nothing wrong with a little hope."

"Hope is for the dead," she states flatly. "Leave it to them." The finality of her words is jarring. Noctua has never sugar coated her thoughts and they are seldom more than bleak. But then, Mandalorians are infamous for a caustic outlook. Necessary for their lifestyle perhaps but incredibly frustrating when seeking reassurance.

We walk past pens of guarded traitors, all chained and collared behind blood encrusted cages. The scene is beyond depressing, a procession of hallow faces awaiting shipment to purgatory. There is a sour odour spoiling the air. It is fear mingled with the burning resentment from a conquered populace.

Hundreds of desperate eyes follow us, call out to us. Some are begging for forgiveness but most curse me for my betrayal. Then there are those who strain against their cages, desperate to touch and speak to loved ones before they are whisked away forever.

I cannot help but notice the Order banner flying proudly above them, the silent witness to our secret shame. Citizens will never hear of this atrocity. About the burgeoning families ruined, the hordes of screaming children dragged away from tearful parents, only to be lost in a cold and impotent bureaucracy.

Three Vindicators struggle to force a Lannik towards an empty cage. The unruly prisoner spews vitriol as we pass by. "You think you've won, you bastards? You've won _nothing_." More Vindicators approach with shock batons.

"Pipe down!" One gloved hand grabs the prisoner but a vicious elbow crushes the soldier's helm away. "The Silent King will _crush_ you," he rants. The heretic's manacles are taught and the Force collar on his neck glows red hot. "He will drag your screaming bodies over a pyre and burn you to ashes! _Ashes_ , you hear me? We will-"

Ava saunters up to the commotion, blaster unholstered. She fires a shot into the Lannik's groin.

There are shrieks, none louder than the victim. He thuds to the floor with clenched legs, sobbing like a bereaved widow. "No one likes a sore loser," Ava grouses. She grabs the mewling alien by the cuff of his robes and shoves him into his cage. Ciras jogs up to her, his expression distasteful. "Dammit Ava, that was just uncalled for," he complains. "How are we going to explain this?"

Ava shrugs. "I was aiming for his chest and he jumped."

Ciras locks the cage and gingerly backs away from the growing puddle of blood. "Do you really expect me to put that in the report?"

"Only if you want to keep self-identifying as a man," she replies calmly. Her smile is deceptively sweet.

"Why can't you be more like your cousin?" Ciras asks, exasperated.

"Who, Carth?"

Ava laughs, her voice dripping with disdain. "He's like a duller, more _pussified_ version of me. Which is painfully ironic when you think about it."

I turn away from the scene, rubbing my temples. Noctua glances at the commotion but doesn't break stride.

"Our _vod_ keeps strange company," she remarks.

"Psychotic would be a better term," I mutter. Vindicators do not have a glorious history. Their reputation for excessive force was legendary _before_ Ava graced them with her 'leadership'. And frequent failure to cooperate with other regiments or use standard army load outs has seen them exiled to inglorious campaigns. Trench and chemical warfare. Urban fighting behind enemy lines. No chance of support.

Ironically, their departure from doctrine fostered their greatest strength. It has bred a generation of unorthodox soldiers, allowing flexible tactics while performing optimally under fire. Their predilection for scavenging has seen their armory swell with an abundance of nonstandard weaponry. The ultimate survivalists.

"Vindicators are unorthodox," I admit. "But our brother requisitioned them personally. The results speak for themselves."

"No doubt," Noctua mutters. She jerks her thumb back at the source of the commotion. "I would keep an eye on that one though."

"Believe me, sister, I know. After Solace, its a miracle High Command didn't discharge Ava. But I assure you-"

"No _vod_ , not the girl," Noctua interrupts. She points more emphatically. " _Him_ ,"

"Ciras?" The thought brings a smile to my lips. "That's absurd. Surely this is a poor joke, sister."

"Have I been known to jest?"

No, no she is not. Not well at least. I stop walking and stare at the Keeper of Sanctity, perplexed. "He is dependable and has our brother's trust. I can vouch for him."

"Be that as it may, there is something...odd about the _ruus'alor_. The Force weaves strange patterns around his soul."

I glance at Ciras and shake my head. "I've fought with him many times, sister. His aura is unremarkable."

Noctua sniffs the air, sampling it. "This is different, _vod_. I can smell...portents around him. Secrets that have yet to be revealed. Be vigilante."

Noctua lapses into silence, leaving me to stare long and hard at the sergeant while he bickers with Ava. Even now, nothing looks out of place with his aura, no metaphysical anomalies that would suggest Force sensitivity. He is a fine soldier and better ally but hardly noteworthy in the plane of the senses. And yet...

It occurs to me that Ciras has never sustained serious injury. Never. Even on this butcher field, the raging energies of reality left him completely unharmed while others were atomized. It is a statistic that beggars belief, only eclipsed by his unnatural resemblance to my brother.

Yes, I've always found that odd. How can two unrelated people share so much likeness and be light years apart in mentality? It is a joke, some sick joke bestowed by the architect of fate. Does it all come down to luck? No, there now such thing. He must possess a quality I cannot discern, some facet only Noctua's heightened senses can detect.

Our patrol returns us to the atrium. The corpses have been removed but the scent of blood and rusted iron still lingers. Most of the plants are dead, leaving a riot of shrivelled fauna and calcified wood. They will never grow back. The ethereal wounds left by Force overspill have tainted the atrium irrevocably.

Revan stands brooding at the site of his triumph. Dark eyes, the brutal pits of the void stare straight ahead. Every so often there is a betrayal of movement. The rustle of robed shoulders. A moment to blink and shake his head in dismissal. It is not unusual for him to be introspective after a campaign, even a successful one for my brother is his own harshest critic. He acknowledges our approach with a nod.

"Status?"

"All major zones secure," I report. "Squad leaders are encountering minor resistance in the hydroponic farms and air recycling facilities."

"Do they need our assistance?"

"I have been informed the suggestion is insulting."

Revan doesn't smile but there is a glint in his eyes that suggests mirth. "My compliments to the 4th," he says quietly.

"They will be glad to hear it," I say sincerely. Vindicators do not respect the Holy Order of the Jedi Knights. Few regiments do after the mess with Kun. But they respect my brother. One might even argue they _crave_ his approval for even Revan's greatest detractors recognize his ascendancy.

"The day is ours, _vod_ yet I sense your disquiet," Noctua remarks. She gives him a curious look. "What gnaws at you?"

Revan holds up a slate data. On them, I can see the mission dossiers pertaining to Santagar and Alivia. "I've been reviewing their physical profiles."

"For information?" I ask.

"For falsehood."

Revan hands me the data slate. "Santagar Nox," he muses. "Widows peak. Hair as black as night. All distinctive traits yet none of the children share those qualities."

I look at the slate and shrug. "They favour their mother's features, it is true."

"He has an unusual lack of body hair."

"I noticed that when we first met."

Revan nods absently, taking back the slate. "Santagar's height is remarkable. Tall but without muscle tone."

I shake my head, exasperated. My brother's mental process has always been byzantine. He can glean so much from trivial information but my personal attempts have only led to embarrassment. "You've lost me, brother. What are you thinking?"

Our conversation is interrupted by the rustle of footsteps. I see a Sullustan approach us, bearing Ciras' squad markings. His aura is frigid to my senses, the mark of a detached killer. The sniper rifle slung over his left shoulder is as dark and soulless as his eyes.

"Priel," Revan says calmly. "Have your technicians gained access to the Eyrie?"

The sniper nods once. Despite the enclave's capitulation, Alivia remains inaccessible to us. The Eyrie's walls have proven impenetrable to conventional and esoteric attacks. Unsurprising since the room is reinforced with starship alloys and glassteel. But like the remaining traitors, it was only a matter of time before we could pull her out. Death will not be her punishment however. The High Council has decreed a darker fate.

Her screams have not diminished since Santagar fell. Even now, I can hear her agony permeating the very walls, sending tremors through the stained glass.

"My thanks. Do not let anyone into the chamber until we arrive."

The diminutive alien begins speaking. His jabber is nonsensical to me but Revan has no trouble understanding. His brow furrows in consternation.

"I know vital medication is limited, Priel. I made it very clear to the surgeons that Mysteel is to have priority. They are to cooperate with Amarinithe in any way she sees fit."

The Sullustan does not seem pleased. His tone and body language indicates a vehement protest.

"She gets priority," Revan repeats sternly. "Any necessity, any specialist attention will go to her first. Understand?"

They stare at each other silently. I swallow, suddenly wishing to be anywhere else in the galaxy. Priel is undoubtedly remorseless, but his dead fish eyes have more humanity than my brother's. And I have no doubt the sniper has witnessed uncounted horrors but he is trying to gaze into the abyss. It is several seconds before Priel has the good sense to turn and walk away.

Revan gestures for us to follow him.

"Brother, sister. Let us conclude this."

He turns to leave with Noctua hobbling in tow. I remain immobile. "Perhaps we should wait until the child is delivered," I call out.

They halt and look back incredulous. "Why?" Noctua growls.

"Our presence could be traumatic."

The disapproval I feel from that suggestion is scathing. I relent.

"Very well."

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _14 days, 20 hours, 42 minutes, 37 seconds before the Triumph_

The Eyrie looks abandoned. Its torchlights burn weakly and the logs stuffed into the fire pit have long since smouldered to ash. The feasting table is groaning under the weight of roasts, sweat meats and other delicacies. All untouched. All waiting for a celebration that will never occur.

One of the partitions is covered with silken drapes hanging from the high ceiling in layers. Alivia's screams are emanating behind them. Revan walks silently towards the noise. He glances back at us before pushing the drapes away.

I see Alivia Nox bedridden. She is surrounded by stacks of metal instruments with only a silken blanket to protect her dignity. Gauze billows in clouds of powdery incense above her, pumping out of hovering aroma-units to mask the scent of blood and antiseptic. She is hyperventilating, her perfect complexion flushed with exertion and her eyes are shut tight. The mattress is already sodden with rivulets of sweat. Around her are humming instruments, medicae monitors and claw-shaped armatures more suited to a science ward. Their gleaming surfaces are thick with steel instruments, vials of gurgling nutrients and coils of translucent tubing.

A woman with auburn hair is attending Alivia, back turned. She coaxes her patient with words of encouragement, oblivious to our presence.

"Try to push again, my lady!" the woman exclaims. "You need to push harder!"

Alivia screams with exertion, cheeks flushed, sweat dripping down matted hair. After several seconds she collapses onto her pillow, gasping for breath.

"I-I can't. Something's wrong. Force above, it...it has never hurt so much!"

Her helper fumbles with a stained cloth and wipes Alivia's forehead.

"Shhh-shhh. It's alright my lady. Here, let me get you some water."

Revan frowns at the improvised treatment. "You are not the attending," he declares. "Who are you?"

The auburn woman whips around with a gasp, eyes wide. She snatches a blaster from a nearby surgical tray before aiming indecisively at each of us.

"Get back! _Back_ you monsters!" Her hands quiver with soul sucking fear.

I raise my hands up, away from my lightsaber. "There is no need for that," I say.

She fires a shot at my feet, leaving a charred hole the carpet. "No further!"

Revan makes a brusque movement with his own hand. The blaster snaps apart like a child's toy. Its wielder falls on her rump, mouth moving soundlessly. My brother moves toward her slowly, mindful not to disturb the machine's delicate operations. He stares down with pitiless eyes.

"Who. Are. You?"

The woman swallows, fighting to keep her composure. "E-Esmerel. I am the lady's handmaiden."

I walk up to my brother's side and kneel on one knee. "Esmerel, who is delivering the baby? Where are the nurses?"

The handmaiden looks at me. A measure of fire returns to her eyes and she stops shivering. She knows the depths of my betrayal. "Dead," she spits. "Killed trying to stop _you_."

Revan walks past her to stand beside Alivia. She recoils at his approach.

"Santagar," she gasps. "Where is my husband? What have you done with him?"

"He's alive, Alivia." I call out. "We have him in custody,"

Her bloodshot eyes fall upon me. Bathed in surgical lights and warning runes, she looks positively demonic. "Exon," she croaks. "It-it was you along. Y-you brought this calamity on us! And to think-"

A stitch of pain wracks her body. She clenches her teeth, trying not to scream.

"I-is Santagar all right?" she asks between gasps. "Did you hurt him?"

I fumble for words. "Santagar has sustained ah...mild cosmetic injuries. He should-"

"We cut in half," Noctua interrupts brusquely.

"You _what_?" Alivia cries. Her eyes widen in distress.

"Sister, please!" I admonish, glancing back. "Show some discretion."

Noctua's stony expression does not flicker. "No."

Alivia looks furious. She tries to lunge at Noctua but doubles over screaming instead. Revan frowns, watching her writhe in excruciating pain. I turn back to Esmerel.

"What is her condition?"

"What does it look like you jackass?" Esmerel snaps. "She's in _labor_."

She doesn't know. I rise and see Revan scanning the myriad of medical apparatuses and drawing his own conclusions. I peer over his shoulder but cannot even begin to make sense of the reams of data.

"How is she, brother?"

"Three to four contractions every ten minutes, five centimetre cervical dilation," Revan remarks. "According to this data, Alivia is in stage two labor. But her symptoms suggests a complication."

He glances back at the handmaiden.

"You, how long has Alivia been in this much pain?"

Esmerel wipes a sheen of sweat from her own forehead. "I-I've lot count. Hours I think."

"Any sign of malpresentation?" The handmaiden stares at him, confused.

"A head!" Revan snaps. "Was the head coming out first?"

"It was, " she admits. "When I saw it, I thought the baby was ready to be delivered. But...but it disappeared back in and my lady has been like this since."

Revan nods. "An obstruction. Shoulder dystocia most likely. You need to perform a leg hyperflexion."

The handmaiden shakes her head in frustration. "I'm just an assistant," she says miserably. "I know nothing of these...these procedures."

"Then why are you even here?"

Esmerel flushes in anger but says nothing. With effort, Alivia stifles her screaming. She stares at my brother with pain shot eyes. "You are versed in medical techniques?" she asks breathlessly. "C-Can you deliver this baby?"

"In theory."

"Unghh, th-then stop standing there like a slack jawed idiot!" Alivia growls. "Deliver it!"

"That would be inappropriat-"

Alivia Nox grabs Revan's robes and hauls him millimetres from her face. The serene poise she normally exudes has dissipated, replaced by a malicious aspect I never knew she possessed. " _Listen_ , you bastard," she hisses. "You destroyed my home. _Mutilated_ my husband. Don't you _dare_ talk to me about what is _in_ _appropriate!_ "

She shuts her eyes at another spasm of pain.

"Nggh, s-so if you don't want to see how inappropriate _I_ can be, you will get some gloves, reach in between my legs and _**rip this fucking baby out of me!**_ "

Alivia suddenly flings her head back and shrieks in agony. The medical readouts begin sounding an ominous dirge. I don't need experience in the healing arts to know what that means. Unless Alivia Nox receives proper medical attention, she will die on her bed of blood. For several seconds, Revan remains immobile. He simply watches the chaos unfold through hooded eyes. My uneasiness mounts.

"We can summon the healers," I suggest.

Noctua snorts. "What healers? They are all trying save our precious _ad'ika's_ life. Or have you forgotten how forcefully our _vod_ insisted?"

She is right. Those who weren't assisting Amarinthe would still be engaged in critical surgeries. None would take kindly to helping an arch heretic.

Revan shakes his head, resigned. He moves to a medical gurney laden with gas canisters, tubes and breathing masks. My brother adjusts the dials on a canister, connects its tube to a mask and places it over Alivia's mouth.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Administering Entonox, it should help with the pain," Revan replies." Alivia's screaming subsides and he glances at Noctua.

"Sister, I need you to stand here and monitor her vitals. Make sure she remains cognizant."

Noctua grumbles something under her breath but moves to comply. Revan begins issuing more orders, falling into his well trodden routine of detached efficiency. "Esmerel, come here. Flex Alivia's legs tightly to her abdomen. That's right, push a little harder. Hmmm, limited movement. Brother, apply pressure here on the lower abdomen. We may need to perform a maternal symphysiotomy. Here is what I want you to do…"

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Well, I bet Revan didn't expect this when planning out the campaign =). Thanks to everyone who provided feedback so far. I really appreciate it! Please keep letting me know what you think._

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **Guest**_ _chapter 16 . Mar 30_

 _Thanks! It was worth writing it if you think so!_

 _ **Just a Crazy-Man**_ _chapter 16 . Apr 6_

 _Thanks, glad you liked the battle!_

 _ **RevJohn**_ _chapter 16 . Apr 15_

 _Thanks! I really appreciate the in depth reviews that you leave behind. Mysteel's fate will be revealed soon._


	18. Chapter 12 - The Truth

_**Chapter 12**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _14 days, 16 hours, 41 minutes, 29 seconds before the Triumph_

The baby cries.

They are mighty squalls, a reassuring announcement of his arrival into our existence. The umbilical cord is cut and Revan swaddles the newborn in soft silken blankets. For a moment he holds him close, letting the tiny lump of flesh mew and paw his scarred face.

By most accounts, holding a baby is a transformative experience. There should be joy. Trepidation. Hope. But Revan's emotions are as impenetrable as the foundations of his soul. They remain perpetually hidden, strangled away by mental walls of his own devising. Alivia by contrast is easy to read. An abundance of loathing for her captors tinged with fear. There is fear for herself certainly, but I sense most of it is for her child.

"You have no right to hold him."

Her voice is barely above a whisper. Alivia Nox's delivery was arduous and rife with complications ever step of the way. Even with Revan's stoic guidance, we barely avoided disaster.

His dark eyes fall upon her. "Why?"

"Because..." Alivia hesitates. "Because you are not the father."

Revan considers this and nods. It would be a simple matter to whisk her progeny away forever. Instead, he puts the child into Alivia's arms. A courtesy.

Alivia Nox cradles her son gently, uttering soothing sounds. She kisses the baby's forehead until his cries diminish to a faint warbling. When he nuzzles Alivia's neck, she laughs tremulously. Tears are streaming down her face and I catch a glimpse into that transcendent ecstasy many parents must experience.

"He's beautiful," she whispers.

"He has your eyes," Revan says quietly. "They all do."

Weariness has crept into his voice, a bone deep fatigue I have never detected. Despite my best efforts, Revan has sustained innumerable injuries in this campaign. He never had the luxury of showing them, not when our oaths remained unfulfilled. But I can see the accumulated trials have finally taken its toll.

It is not just the broken bones, punctured organs and energy lacerations. Those can be attended to. Regrown if need be. No, it is the psychological trauma I'm concerned about, that insidious canker that rots the soul. Those wounds will require more subtle attention.

Unfortunately, there will be precious little time for recuperation. Another battlefield awaits, then another immediately after that. Such are the the innumerable crises facing the Throneworld.

We are their faithful blades to be sure, the surgical cuts needed to purge the Republic's growing rot. But prolonged usage has dulled our killing edge, and I fear that attrition will be our downfall. I do not voice that concern though for my brother's opinion on the matter is set in stone.

 _Only in death does duty end._

Revan allows the the baby to nurse. For a few precious minutes, the room is imbued with a tranquility utterly at odds with the hellscape festering beneath its foundations. But eventually he glances at Noctua and nudges his head to the door. She acknowledges his silent request and hobbles towards Esmerel, hand outstretched.

"Come with me."

The handmaiden slaps Noctua's bony hand away. "Get your hands off me, _heathen_ ," she snaps. "I am not leaving my lady's side."

Noctua bares her teeth. She looks half tempted to melt Esmerel's brain but Alivia saves her from that grizzly fate.

"It's all right," she calls out. "Go with her. I'll be fine."

The handmaiden hesitates. "Are you sure, my lady?"

"Positive. Thank you for your concern."

Esmerel curtsies and is reluctantly dragged away by our sister. The handmaiden lingers to give me a poisonous look before being yanked roughly through the drapes. Alivia waits for the dull clang of shutting doors before turning to address me.

"Is it gone?" she asks. "All of it?"

There is dread in Alivia's voice but also returning strength. Already I can see defiance simmering behind her emerald eyes. I meet her gaze without blinking.

"Yes."

She swallows. "I-I need to see."

Alivia rises gingerly from her bed of blood, wincing. I move to assist but she pushes my hand away.

"No. You've done enough." Her voice is caustic with resentment. She pushes past and shuffles towards the main chamber with her child. My brother and I follow silently, vigilante.

When Alivia Nox emerges through the drapes, she gasps. One hand rises to cover her mouth.

"You monsters," she murmurs.

Beyond the Eyrie's windows, the enclave still shines. But where it once gleamed with polished gold and sapphires, the only glow remaining are sickly fires devouring its charred walls. Jewelled crenellations run thick with blood. It floods the streets, spatters every inch of the enclave's gilded tiles. And the bodies... _so_ many bodies. They clog the pavements, stacked in layers like unholy effigies to appease some monstrous deity. Angry clouds of flies swarm dead Oathbreakers, blotting out their corpses in a concerted effort to feast.

With effort, Alivia tears her gaze away from the ruins of her kingdom. Her face is as hard as granite but I can see the cracks of pain. It is given away by trembling shoulders, the quiver of her lower lip.

"I knew the High Council could never stand our prosperity," she says hoarsely. "But this...this is a war crime. Beyond all civil and moral codes. The Force will see you _burn_ for this."

We remain silent. There is no point trying to justify our actions to Alivia. Our philosophies are too entrenched, too mired in personal biases to be swayed by a single discussion. People believe what they want to believe. No amount of dialogue will change that.

Alivia walks stiffly to deposit her baby into his ceremonial crib. A golden framed portrait of the Nox family hangs above it. Artisanal droids have painted it with photorealistic precision, capturing the family's best and worst qualities. Their dignity. Their arrogance.

"What are your intentions now?" she asks, rising up. "For us? For the children?"

"The young will be shipped to the Throneworld," Revan answers. He rests his weight against the feasting table, hands folded. "Those deemed salvageable will be distributed to loyalist enclaves. From there, Masters will strip their minds from your poisoned teachings and mould them into proper guardians of the Republic."

"You mean they will turn them into _slaves_ ," Alivia retorts. Her voice is bitter with recrimination. "It is not enough to traumatize our young, you have to ruin them with your appalling ideology as well."

"You are entitled to that opinion," replies Revan. He does an admirable job of keeping his tone neutral. "As for the Oathbreakers, Atris has charged you with genocide and moral failure. The penalty for these crimes are disjunction accompanied by a lifetime of imprisonment."

Alivia laughs. "Moral failure?" she repeats acidly. "Oh _she's_ one to talk. The bitch's _morality_ is what started this quagmire thirty years ago. When I go to trial, everyone will hear about how Atris and the High Council shit the bed. I will _crucify_ them with their ineptitude."

"There won't be a trial."

Alivia smile fades. "I must have misheard you, brother," she says darkly. "Since when did the Republic give up due process?"

Revan holds her glare, face still as marble. "The wider populace and your puppet government will be given legal process. Oathbreakers will not."

Alivia flushes with outrage. "What gives you the right?" she demands. "Has Atris blown up the Senate and become sole dictator? I would not put it past her. It's what she always wanted, the conniving bitch."

"Your entire enclave has been designated _Excommunicate Traitoris,_ Alivia," I explain patiently. "That means you are no longer considered Knights or even Republic citizens. Under article 23 of the Joint Defence Act, the High Council can sentence any traitor without Republic judiciary interference. This bill was passed through the Senate months ago without resistance."

For a moment, Alivia stares at me dumbfounded. "How could they allow it?" she asks. "How could the _Republic_ allow it?"

I glance at Revan, wondering if Alivia should be privy to such politicking. He nods his assent. "Ever since Corvaine was lost, various Order representatives has been doing damage control in the Senate," I continue. "Master Lestin in particular has a gift for oratory. He has painted your enclave as being a coven of Kun's debauched lunatics. Lunatics that have performed unspeakable atrocities on Corvaine's population and slaving them to rebellion. Furthermore, the wily Master has insinuated the Republic justice system did not contain sufficiently harsh penalties for these crimes. Most senators were more than happy to let the Throneworld concoct suitable punishments."

Alivia looks sick. "Disgusting propaganda," she spits.

"A necessary justification," I point out. "Corvaine's rebellion has become untenable. It had to be brought to heel."

Alivia runs a hand through her disheveled hair, pacing back and forth. "No," she says eventually. "No, Republic citizens will never believe this slander," she mutters half to herself. "You might think these power plays can suppress our story, but the truth will come out. It always does. And once citizens hear it, they will _rage_."

Revan pushes himself from the feasting table and spreads his hands. "Why would they?" he asks. "People _hate_ the truth because the truth is rarely convenient. True, there might be _some_ anger once Corvaine's scandal comes to light. But apathy will sway the majority. Citizens have enough to worry about."

"You give people too little credit," Alivia retorts.

"Some perhaps," I remark. "But the story of heroes falling from grace is as old as time. People love character assassinations, because it makes them feel morally superior by comparison."

Revan nods in agreement. "And if a fallen Jedi should get their comeuppance...well that is just the icing on the cake. Master Lestin is spoon feeding them what they want to hear."

"Spoon feeding them lies." Alivia has heard enough. She marches to the liquor cabinet and takes out a bottle of Bothan red ale. The contents disappear almost immediately. "All that Lestin is doing is feeding a starving man scraps," Alivia snaps. She pours herself another goblet, seething. "Propping up your corrupt institution with slivers of hope."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Revan replies. The remark makes her laugh. It is a cynical laugh, bitter with understanding. She raises her drink and gestures to our vandalism. "This farce...it isn't sustainable, you know that right? All these falsehoods your leaders have perpetrated will come crashing down on their heads."

"We wouldn't _have_ to lie if Corvaine came to the negotiating table," I growl at her. "Your enclave is just as complicit in our woes."

She looks at me, lips curled in derision. The expression is highly reminiscent of Manford's sneer.

"You are a disappointment, Exon," she announces. "I thought there was spirit in you. A spark of ingenuity that would let you break free from the dogma that has plagued the Order. But you are just another drone, begging for the High Council's approval like a whipped dog."

The insult stings harder then I care to admit. "I did what had to be done."

"What had to be done," Alivia repeats mockingly. "By the Force, _that's_ your excuse? We showed you brotherhood and you repaid us with betrayal. Where is your _shame_? Did the High Council take it along with your manhood?"

When I do not answer she continues. "The Silent King will not forget this. He will see every victim, every injustice avenged. You and your walking corpse have doomed yourselves."

She raises her glass in a mocking toast. "To vengeance! May the Silent King purify your souls through fire!" And with that, Alivia Nox drinks deep.

I share a glance with Revan. It should have been simple to dismiss her words. To chalk them up as the empty ramblings of a disgraced traitor. And yet the sincerity in her voice cannot be refuted. Santagar, Alivia...they both seem so confident, so _assured_ of a greater reprisal. I have found nothing, not a crumb of evidence to suggest a conspiracy. Save for that damned name. Uttered like some unholy mantra among the heretics.

"The Silent King," Revan muses. "Tell me about him."

Alivia scoffs, dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief. "I will tell you nothing," she states. The wine has stained her teeth a ghoulish red. "Nothing save for the fact that your Order's demise is assured. When Atris' howls reverberate through the Well of Infinity, I will know that our enclave has been avenged."

"Very well."

Revan walks towards her, one hand reaching into his robes. Alivia tenses instinctively but my brother has no intention of violence. He produces a sheaf of documents and presses it into Alivia's hands. She eyes the papers suspiciously.

"What is this?"

"A provision for clemency, approved and signed by the Grandmaster," Revan responds. He walks past Alivia to the glassteel windows, letting his gaze settle on our orchestrated destruction.

"Ever since Kun's heresy, Atris has been restructuring the Order in the hopes of quelling future uprisings. Suffice to say, your rebellion has hampered her efforts sorely. I daresay the blunder has driven her a little mad."

Alivia chuckles. "Good."

Revan ignores her gloating tone. "Atris would like nothing more than to crucify your entire family but the Grandmaster has decided otherwise. In her wisdom, she has decided to offer you these terms. Terms that will become public upon agreement."

Alivia's looks down at the document. "I don't understand," she says slowly. "You've already taken our bastion. What could we possibly offer Suni with a signed document?"

"Public approval," Revan answers. "The Order's reputation is in shambles, everyone knows this. Shattered by Kun's idiotic tantrum in the Senate. As the decades go by, even the Throneworld's most ardent supporters lose confidence in their leadership.

His gaze is fixed on a burning Order banner that has fluttered onto the upper ramparts. It is poignant reminder of the Jedi's future should we fail.

"To restore public confidence, the Grandmaster believes we need to rehabilitate the Throneworld's image as peacemakers. She has declared it is not enough to retake Corvaine. The Throneworld needs its puppet government to publicly accept re-integration. Your acceptance."

Alivia stares at the back of Revan's head for a moment then peruses through the treaty, brow furrowed.

"Cooperation in internal inquiries," she mutters. "Full disclosure of activities...wait, admit to being an agent of Exar Kun? _A public recantation of my crimes against the Order?!_ "

She looks up, outraged. "Suni wants me to fall on my sword. To take the blame for Atris' bungling attempts at leadership."

Revan says nothing. His cowled head remains firmly fixed towards the glassteel.

"Atris has always painted _you_ , not Santagar as the prime architect of Corvaine's downfall," I point out. "As far as the wider Republic knows, Alivia Nox follows Kun's will, the tyrant of your generation. Which is why your 'redemption' will go a long way in restoring public confidence."

I walk up to her and point to a specific line on the document.

"In exchange for your cooperation, the Nox family will be given limited amenities. A relatively comfortable holding facility. Periodic visitation rights. Oh, and specialized medical treatment. _That_ is something your family desperately needs."

Alivia shakes her head in disbelief. I can sense her fury, barely contained under her powdered face. "You can't possibly believe I will agree to this...this _slander_!"

"Belief is not required," says Revan. He pushes himself from the railing and turns back to her. "Merely your cooperation."

For a moment they stare at each other. Then Alivia chuckles. With elaborate slowness she tips the contents of her goblet over Revan's head.

"There's your answer," Alivia says acidly. She throws the treaty at my feet and stalks back to wine cabinet. "This 'offer'...it is insulting and morally reprehensible. Why would even attempt it?"

Revan makes no attempt to wipe the wine away. It drips down his chin, staining his robes like fresh wounds.

"Protocol," he says simply.

" _Protocol._ " Alivia's expression is scornful as she pours herself a fresh goblet. "By the Force brother, do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? We cannot choose the state of the galaxy we are born into. But this ambivalence you display...it proves how far the Order's morals have calcified."

She points her goblet at the ruined kingdom below.

"The brothers and sisters you slaughtered...they were better than you. You call them heretics, but all of them dared to challenge a system that smothers its followers in outdated dogma. Perhaps we overreached, but what our rebellion represents can never be undone. You cannot kill an idea."

Revan and I glance at each other. "What idea is that?" I ask.

"That the Jedi Order must _change_ ," she says fervently. "You cleave to millennia old doctrines, interpreting them with _nothing_ resembling common sense. All while punishing Jedi who fight to keep its soul alive." She takes a shuddering breath. "Listening to fanatics like Atris...it will only lead us to extinction. If you cannot see this, then I pity you."

"Did you pity your Master too?" Revan asks pointedly. Alivia steps back, surprised.

"Yes, I reviewed the survivor reports. Multiple sources confirm Master Hefgard fell to his own apprentice." He walks closer, his gaze hard. "What about the hundreds of brothers and sisters that died refusing heresy? How did you mourn for them?"

Alivia's smiles thinly. "Hefgard and the other extremists would have taken Santagar from me. Sacrificed him to appease Atris' agenda. I did what had to be done."

"Madness." Revan shakes his head as he says the word. His dismissal seems to strike a nerve.

"Have _you_ ever been in love?" she demands. "Have you ever bonded with someone so intimately, their soul is intertwined with yours?"

"I have not," Revan states flatly.

"Then speak not of things you do not understand," Alivia replies tersely. She stares up at the golden family portrait, a grim smile on her face. "Santagar and I have overcome hardships that would drive lesser men insane. We bled together, built a kingdom and birthed a dynasty. All while defying the Throneworld."

She sweeps her disdainful gaze back at us.

"Our enclave prospered. We reached heights not seen since the Great Sundering. And what made it possible? Our _love_. That one thing denied to all Jedi proved to be the greatest motive force in the universe. The force that set us free."

She leans back against the fireplace mantle, a faint smile on her face. Her posture reminds me of a preening peacock.

"When you fall in some cold forgotten battlefield, remember this. Remember you burnt our home, ruined our bodies, but _you_ _never_ took what we cherished most. Die envying our gift and curse that we had more virtues than you."

The arrogance in her voice is galling. Even with the multitude of crimes laid bare against her, Alivia is unrepentant. You could almost forget she is a prisoner in her own home. I rise to challenge her words but my brother speaks first.

"You are correct, Alivia," Revan says quietly. "I know nothing of this...bond that you speak of. What you have described sounds more akin to brain damage than any virtuous power in the universe."

My brother moves alongside her. He fixes his gaze on the fireplace, letting its dying embers create tantalizing shadows under his cowl. "But I do know _one_ thing. I know that people lie."

Alicia frowns, nursing her drink. "Are you accusing me of lying?"

"Don't take it personally, _everybody_ lies," Revan replies. "Lying is the first evolutionary milestone for a successful species. Who we _say_ we are rarely reflects our true character. And yet, it can be uncovered. One merely has to engage in observation."

At this point, Revan swivels his head, letting his gaze meet Alivia's. "Have you ever observed someone, Alivia?" he asks softly. "Most people do not. They _see_ but they do not _observe_. Show six individuals a picture and you will receive six distinct interpretations depending on their biases. But twisting facts to suit theories is unhelpful so I waited until meeting each Nox before drawing any conclusions. Imagine my surprise."

Alivia laughter is mocking in its insincerity.

"You think you know me because of a… _five minute conversation_?" she chuckles at the thought. "My poor deluded fool, you know _nothing_ about me. Nothing beyond what I choose to impart."

Revan remains unfazed by her scorn. "You may be surprised," he replies. "Every face is an open book. Habits and physical nuances, a treasure trove of information. This 'five minute conversation' has given me all the information I need."

Alivia smile doesn't fade but a flicker of uncertainty passes across her proud face. A realization she has underestimated her sparring partner. She hides it with practiced contempt.

"Oh pray tell. What deep revelation have you stumbled across?"

Revan ignores her question. "You say you love your husband, your family," he continues slowly. "Would you say your family loves you?"

"Of course." The tone in her voice is defensive, hostile. "The fact that you even have to ask shows me your ignorance."

"What lengths would you go to keep that love?"

A murderous glint appears in her eyes. "Are you threatening me, brother?" she asks softly. "I promise that will not go well for you."

"That isn't an answer."

"Anything," she breathes. "I will tear heaven and earth for them."

"I see."

"Now answer me," Alivia demands. "What is it you _think_ you know?"

"Why, the fact that Santagar isn't the father of your children."

Alivia strikes him. The attack is so swift, I don't even see the swing. One moment they are standing side by side. The next Alivia is standing on top of Revan, a foot pressing against his neck. Fingernails have gouged deep furrows into Revan's right cheek, leaving bloody contrails.

"Bastard!" Alivia shouts down at him. She begins applying pressure to my brother's neck, eliciting gurgles. "How _dare_ you accuse me of this...this slander!"

She moves to strike again but the violence has disturbed the baby. It begins crying, shrieks so loud it makes the walls shake. Alivia whips around at the sound and her fury temporarily drains away. She steps off of her victim and rushes to scoop her child up.

"Oh, sweetie. I'm sorry about that. Don't be scared," Alivia begs. She bounces the baby gently in her arms. "Shhh shhh shhh."

Revan struggles to his feet, waving me away as I attempt to assist him. We watch as Alivia continually tries to coax her baby with soothing noises and kisses. The wailing persists so she is forced to trudge back with her screaming child. Her eyes are molten with fury.

"How?" she hisses softly. How could you _possibly_ think I was unfaithful?"

Revan points two fingers to his bloodied face. "Blue and green eyes," he says quietly. "All your children have it."

"And?" Alivia snaps. "What of it?"

"Those are _recessive_ traits," Revan explains. "Overshadowed by Santagar's dominant ones. Statistically, three out of four of your progeny should favour his colouring. But none at all? That roused my suspicion."

He reaches up and brushes a lock of the child's hair.

"Always golden or sandy. No mixed shades between you and Santagar. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Alivia pulls her baby away. "You are a greater charlatan than I imagined," she sneers. " _Dozens_ of golden haired children were born in this enclave and their parents' hair were as black as a crow's wing. These...observations are as meaningless as that treaty."

Revan shrugs. "True, your pups _could_ have inherited genes with less eumelanin. And the sample size is small I admit. What I _cannot_ ignore are Santagar's own qualities."

Alivia scornful gaze does not waver. "What foolishness are babbling about?"

Revan glances at the Nox portrait.

"Brother," he calls out. "Would you say this picture does Alivia's family justice?"

I hesitate, surprised by the question. "I would."

"What stands out about Santagar Nox? What was your first impression?"

"He is tall."

"What else?"

My frown deepens, unsure where Revan is headed. "Santagar lacks body hair. Muscle definition."

"Exactly," agrees Revan. He taps the painting. "These traits are all indicative of a chromosomal disorder. Klinefelter Syndrome to be exact."

I stare at him blankly. "That means nothing to me."

"Nor I," Alivia grumbles. "Speak plainly. What are you trying to say?"

Revan looks back at her, _really_ looks at her. His dark eyes bore straight through her disdain and just for a moment, I can feel Alivia's soul shiver. "You _know_ what I am saying," he replies in a low voice. "You have known for a long time."

"Known _what_?" she demands.

"Santagar Nox is infertile."

I blink. Impossible. How could this be true? Desabel _boasted_ about her bloodline. She was proud, so very proud. And Santagar...Carmon said he was overjoyed to have another descendent. Unless…

Glancing at Alivia, I see that the anger has bled from her face. She is pale now, pale to the point of translucency. There are no shouts of denial this time around either, no accusations of falsehood spewing from her lips. The only emotion I see...is dread.

Alivia moves like she is in a dream. For the third time since delivering, she approaches the wine cabinet and pours herself a goblet. Her hand trembles as she drinks, spilling most of the wine on her silken gown. This behaviour rouses my worst suspicions. I walk up beside her, grim faced.

"No one knows, do they?"

Silence. "How could he?" I continue, "Santagar is a Nox. His fixation with pedigree means every generation had to be through the blood. No half measures. No adoption."

She shakes her head in denial, as if the action would make this horrible truth go away. Her eyes are glassy, as if she is perceiving her surroundings in a different light.

"This..this isn't proof," she mutters between gulps. "All you have are assumptions. Theories. Th-they are not grounded in science."

She reaches for another bottle but a gloved hand bats it away. It crashes against the wall, spattering like a bloodstain. The baby's cries intensify. Alivia whips around, furious.

"How dare-"

She freezes in mid sentence, shocked to see Revan standing millimetres from her face. I share that shock. My brother's expression cannot be described as anything except terrifying. Worn by a soul born to suffer.

"You want to play this game?" he growls. "Fine, then this is what will happen. I will stab each Oathbreaker with a syringe and drain the marrow from their bones. Starting with yours."

"You wouldn't dare!" Alivia gasps. "I-"

"These samples will go through a gene sequencer," Revan interrupts. "It will map out each of their genealogies, sequence by sequence and I will compare them with your children." He jabs a finger at the painting for emphasis. "How many will match Santagar's? How many _other_ heretics will I find - sandwiched into their swamp of a gene pool? Two? _Three?_ "

 _"_ Stop it! Stop it! _Stop it!"_ Alivia shouts. She tries to pull away, shaking her head like a feral feline. Revan grabs her hair and forces her to look at him, until even her peripheral vision is eclipsed by his cadaverous glare.

"When there is irrefutable proof, I will drag your family together," he promises quietly. "Your children will learn the cold hard truth of their bastard births and you will bear witness. You think you know pain? Wait until you suffer the cold burning resentment of loved ones betrayed. Santagar will be there of course - broken, crippled, _ashamed_ beyond words. And that will be the last image you see before we throw you in a lightless hole. The sight of your family _loathing_ you."

My blood runs cold. It is hard rouse my brother's anger, but once unleashed it is an irresistible force. His fury dredges up a formless fear, insidious tendrils that hook into the lizard meat of our brains. And his eyes. Force above, his eyes are black holes, greedily sucking every scrap of light into their unfathomable depths. Nothing reflects from those orbs, not even his victim's terror.

Defiance leaves Alivia Nox. She collapses onto the floor, head buried in one free hand. Then I see her cry, great heaving sobs wrenched straight from the pits of her shattered soul. The baby joins her mournful chorus. My impulse is to soothe their turmoil but I am paralyzed by fear. An unwilling witness to the unfolding sorrow.

We are treacherous by nature. There will always be secrets between mortals, no matter how close two purport to be. Alivia is not unique in her duplicity. She is simply unlucky enough to have crossed my brother's path.

Revan walks to pick up the discarded treaty. When Alivia summons enough strength to look up, he tosses it on her lap and holds out a pen.

"Cooperate and I won't report the fact you sired a legion of bastards," Revan says curtly. "Santagar won't know he is a cuckold and everyone lives on in blissful ignorance. Your family and followers keep idolizing you."

Alivia stares at the proffered documents. Her bottom lip trembles. "Santagar...he is so proud of his lineage, his ancient bloodline," she whispers hoarsely. Her delicate shoulders quiver. "My husband envisioned spreading it across the entire galaxy. A great legacy. I couldn't...I couldn't take that away from him."

Revan is unmoved by her admission. "I believe that is called nepotism," he declares.

Her head goes between her baby and the painting of her doting husband. "E-Even if you keep my secret, my family will never forgive me for handing Corvaine back on a platter."

My brother shrugs. "Then make something up. Tell them I threatened you with violence. Tell them I promised to drown your baby for all I care. Ignorance is bliss...but you already knew that."

The callousness in my brother's voice is disconcerting. Perhaps he understands Alivia's predicament. Perhaps he simply doesn't care. Not for the first time, I wonder if it is blood or bile that pumps through Revan's heart.

I can see Alivia has finally run out of rope to hang herself with. She droops her head in defeat and reaches out with trembling fingers to take the pen. "I-I only did what I thought was right," she whispers.

"It's the only reason why anyone ever does anything," says Revan quietly. "Sign here."

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _And with that, the campaign on Corvaine has come to an end. But wait, what about Mysteel? Don't worry, there will be one more chapter to wrap up this arc of the story. Once again, thanks to everyone who provided feedback so far!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **Just a Crazy-Man**_ _chapter 10 . April 24, 2018_

 _Thanks, glad you liked it!_

 _ **RevJohn**_ _chapter 10 . Apr 29, 2018_

 _It's definitely a messed up situation. I was trying to go for maximum irony. I hope you think this chapter had that as well =)._


	19. Chapter 13 - Farewell

_**Chapter 13**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _14 days, 14 hours, 56 minutes, 45 seconds before the Triumph_

Wardens are summoned. The baby is wrenched from Alivia's arms while she is bound and collared at gunpoint. Through all this, Alivia Nox barely reacts. The eyes I see leaving are a portal to a wrecked soul.

A horrendous fate awaits the surviving Oathbreakers, one of constant observation and interrogation. Order's specialists will scour them for every morsel of knowledge, things even their consciousness can no longer recollect. The practices involved are rumoured to be unethical, bordering on monstrous but Throneworld security is paramount. If even a crumb of knowledge exists about the Silent King, then it must be dredged up.

I push the heretics from my thoughts. There are more pressing matters to contend with now.

Ciras waits for us at the foot of the Eyrie. An uncharacteristic frown mars his face, one which can only herald ill tidings. I feel dread gripping my heart tighter with each step. It is an unease that can only be felt by the foresighted.

"Sergeant," I call out. "What is Mysteel's condition?"

Ciras wipes his brow and swallows. "I'm sorry, sir. The wound was too deep."

The finality of that statement stings like a barbed spear. It was all for naught then. Even a Keeper of Sanctity cannot cheat inevitability.

"How long does she have?" Revan asks.

"According to Amarinthe, not long." Ciras glances at Revan but quickly averts his eyes. I would not be able to hold his gaze either.

"She...she is performing last rites. Mysteel has asked to see you both. You should-,"

"Thank you, sergeant," Revan says tonelessly. He rushes past Ciras without another word. We follow closely, our boots hammering the deck in drumbeat unison.

The infirmary ward is the only quadrant spared from our cleansing. Vindicators are posted in front of operating rooms, unofficial gaolers to the traitors under the knife. Our sister resides in the central medicae is the largest and most equipped chamber. No expense has been spared. Guards acknowledge our approach. They disengage the door's locks and usher us in.

The interior is stifling, saturated with a chemical reek that assaults the olfactories. Slabs of grey consoles surround the circumference, pumping and chiming a doleful rhythm. I see clawed armatures and other equipment twitching on the ceiling. Their metal gleam is dulled by congealed blood, evidence of recent use.

Dozens are in the room. I can see Noctua's crabbed silhouette, skulking somewhere beyond the fringes. Then there are the midnight clad from the 1st and 2nd, auxiliary units and medical specialists. Even _Priel_ has come to pay his respects. The army's gesture of solidarity is touching.

At the sight of us Vindicators make way, the black sea temporarily parting for our passage. We march through the armoured columns, stone faced. The rustle of our robes is drowned out by sympathetic murmurs.

We emerge to find Mysteel bedridden, bathed under the harsh glare of medicae lights. Her flawless body was once the envy of every socialite on the Throneworld. Now it lies ruined, twisted and swaddled in blood soaked linens. A sickly pallor has robbed Mysteel's of her golden lustre and her breaths come in forced gasps. The machines breathe for her now, forcing her chest to rise and fall steadily like a metronome. Feeder tubes gurgle underneath her blanket, syphoning plasma and waste almost as quickly as nutrients are shunted in. I can barely perceive her soul light. It is a weak candle, on the verge of guttering out completely.

Amarinthe kneels to the left of Mysteel's deathbed, cowl up. Ash has been smeared beneath her eyes to mark her mourning. Ava stands opposite. Her face, normally bursting with rancour has been covered by a mask of solemnity. An ill fitting look, and one I find infinitely more unnerving.

Revan approaches the bed with heavy steps. He lays a gloved hand gently over Mysteel's head.

"Sister."

Her left eye flutters open. It focuses on nothing, darting to any fro. "Rev...is that you?" she whispers hoarsely.

"I am here, Mysteel," Revan says quietly. He grips her fingers delicately, lifting them like millennia old porcelain. "Exon as well."

"It is good to see you, sister." My throat is dry as I say the words. She struggles to rise, but collapses in a fit of coughing. I take a glass of water near her bed and press it to her parched lips. Revan grips Mysteel's shoulder to steady her. "Do not exert yourself. Rest, save your strength."

She calms down after a few sips. "Did...did it work?" she asks hoarsely.

"It did," Revan assures her. He strokes her left lekku, showing an uncharacteristic amount of tenderness. "The heretics are contained. Corvaine is retaken. And we would not have succeeded without you."

After a moment, Revan adds. " _I_ would not have succeeded without you."

Mysteel manages a tremulous smile. "I-I'm *koff*...I'm glad."

She swallows again, licking her lips with bloody saliva. Each breathe sounds shallower than the last, like a punctured balloon on the verge of collapse. "T-there isn't much time. The medics-"

"Hush," Revan says gently. "Don't think of such things. You'll be up on your feet in no time."

Mysteel gives a choked laugh. Bloods fountains from the sides of her mouth. "Oh Rev, y-your *koff* such a terrible *koff* *koff* liar."

"You're not dying Mysteel," Revan insists. The art of comfort is lost upon my brother and he struggles to find the proper words. "You're...you're just going to sleep. In a few days, you'll be back up and chasing younglings across the training halls. Driving Master Vrook to apoplectic fits."

He tries to smile but even a child can tell his levity is forced. At length, Revan lowers his head and lets his shoulders sag. "This is my fault," he whispers. The admission is laden with the weight of guilt.

"D-don't say that." Mysteel shudders in pain. "I-I knew the risks. Th-there are *koff* n-never any guarantees."

Revan shakes his head. "This was preventable," he murmurs. "I should have reinforced you sooner. Devised a better escape route. But I miscalculated and you ended up paying the price. I'm sorry."

He buries his face against her hand. "I'm am _so_ sorry."

A tear falls down Mysteel's cheek. "It's okay, Rev...it's okay. D-don't *koff* don't beat yourself up over it."

She smiles and lifts a trembling hand to stroke Revan's hair. It takes all her effort not to cry. "But w-would you do something for me. When I'm better?"

"Name it, sister," Revan says without hesitation. He grips her hands tighter. "If it within my power, I will do it."

Mysteel looks apprehensive, as if trying to share a forbidden secret. "W-we've been on Coruscant so long, but I've never *koff* never really seen it beyond temple grounds."

She closes her eyes and curls up with a painful fit of coughing. I press the water glass back to her lips.

"I've...I've always wanted to see the *koff* Throneworld's night life," she murmurs between swallows. "You know, the Uscru District, th-the Outlander Club. Will-will you *koff* will you take me there sometime?" She looks at Revan with doe eyes, pleading.

A cloud of uncertainty passes over Revan's face. His frown deepens. "Mysteel, you know we can't engage in such...fraternizations."

Trepidation fades from Mysteel, smothered with abject misery. Her soul light, already dim threatens to snuff out completely. "I know," she husks. "I just wanted-"

"I know what you want," Revan whispers, lowering her hand. "But it is something I can never give you. I'm sorry."

He begins to pull away. Ciras grabs Revan's shoulder and whispers harshly into his ear. "By the Force, man, are you _dead_ inside? How can you be so cruel?"

The outburst is unexpected. I have never seen Ciras oppose my brother on any issue. His implicit trust forms the foundation of our joint operation.

"It would be crueler to give her false hope," Revan mutters in reply.

"There is no other kind!" Ciras growls. He shakes his counterpart with both hands. "She is on her deathbed. Show some goddamn empathy!"

Still Revan does nothing. I am not surprised by his recalcitrance but I am disappointed. Lying is nothing to him. All war is based upon deception as this campaign has demonstrated. But an oath is a manifestation of honour, the essence of our livelihood. A false vow, even a well intentioned one is anathema to a sworn Knight. My brother is too unyielding to make an exception.

"You are wasting your time, Ciras," I sigh. "He-"

Revan kneels and cups Mysteel hand in both of his. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to consider his actions.

"All right, Mysteel," he says amidst a sea of onlookers. "All right."

The answer surprises me. Truly. For so long, I doubted Revan even possessed a soul. He was always too distant, too detached from his inner humanity lest it interfere with duty. And yet here he is, swallowing his pride. Swearing an impossible oath for the sake of a dying sister. When it counted the most, I can attest that Revan chose compassion over personal convictions.

That comforts me.

Hope returns to Mysteel's beautiful features. "Y-you mean it? Like *koff* like a date?"

"Like a date."

"D-do you promise?" Mysteel's voice trembles, barely audible. "Do you swear?"

"On my honour, I swear," Revan promises.

In those last precious seconds, the pain disappears from Mysteel's face, replaced by a look of contentment. Her eyes - once dull with opiates, sparkle with the old merriment. That sparkle persists for several heartbeats before it inevitably diminishes. Mysteel's eyes flutter close. Her chest rises and falls one last time before finally falling still.

I bear silent witness, watching her soul light flicker and disappear.

When the heart monitor flatlines, Revan lowers his forehead in grief. His fingers remain intertwined with our sister's.

"Farewell, Mysteel," he whispers. "May you find peace with your mother beyond the veil."

I grip my brother's shoulder and lend him my strength. For once, his soul is laid bare to me, a pit of sorrow that mirrors my own. Mysteel Vao had not served long, but the vitality she infused our ailing spirits cannot be overstated.

Her flamboyancy and optimism was not just infectious, it was _essential_ in a time when Knights have little reason to smile. Sisters adored her. Many brothers harboured unrequited feelings. _All_ desired to be near her glowing presence.

The Golden One we called her, a beautiful sun that warmed the Order's shrivelling heart. Unfettered by the brooding fanaticism that has polluted the Throneworld. Now the loss was galling.

"You were too good for us, sister," I mumble softly and look away. While turning, I notice Ava sobbing, one hand covering her face. That is odd. No, that is positively _warped_. When has Ava Onasi ever shown a lick of humanity? I stare at the sergeant, eyes narrowed. It is only when I see her mouth that I realize she isn't sobbing with grief.

She is sobbing with laughter.

It isn't just her. The soldiers around her are stifling chuckles. Cretinous bastards. Are they laughing at our grief? _Really_? Who _does_ that?

Revan hears it too. He lifts his head, eyeing the Vindicators with suspicion.

"What-"

Mysteel springs up onto her bed. She tears off her bandages, a look of triumph radiating beneath layers of dried blood.

"There, you swore!" she shouts. "And I have witnesses!"

Revan stumbles back, horror etched onto his face. It's a trap. It was all one elaborate _trap_. The Vindicators can't hold it in any more. They erupt with laughter, howls so violent they make the ceilings shake. Ciras is leaning on Revan for support, red faced. Tears are streaming down his face as he gasps for breath. "Oh Boss Man...your face, your fucking _face!_ "

My mind is numb with disbelief. For several seconds, all I can do is stare at the chaos, mouth ajar. Nothing makes sense. She was dead. Utterly _utterly_ dead _._ The soul had dissipated into the ethereal winds. And yet, there it is anew, re-ignited like a roaring furnace.

"This is impossible," I mouth in disbelief. My gaze falls on Amarinthe. She is grinning at me, smugness radiating from every pore.

"You masked her aura," I accuse. "Mysteel was never in any mortal danger, was she?"

"Of course not," she scoffs. "Did you doubt my abilities?"

"This was a cruel sham, sister," I growl. The raucous din is so loud, I practically have to shout. "I was worried half to death!"

"Oh please," Amarinthe chuckles. "Is it any worse than the charade you performed for weeks?"

I grimace. She has me there but it does little to soothe my wounded pride. My ire recedes upon hearing Mysteel's mellifluous laugh. Force, it is good to hear that sound again. As sweet as the nectar of the Gods. She is bowing to the crowd now, basking in their cheers of adulation. Amarinthe adds a salute of her own.

"I'm impressed, little sister," she calls out. "You managed to trick our brother. An unheard of feat."

It is true. The number of successful schemes against my brother can be counted on one hand. The fact that this childish ploy worked at all shows how weary the campaign has made him.

Mysteel giggles, flicking her lekku over her shoulder. "What can I say?" she chirps. "Some creative makeup and tons of blood packs go a long way."

She hops off the bed and wraps her arms playfully around Revan's neck. Her eyes are bright with mischief.

"Besides, it doesn't hurt to be the galaxy's best actress," she teases. "Isn't that right, Rev?"

Revan doesn't reply. His face seems perpetually frozen in shell shock. When he speaks, it is in a dreamlike torpor.

"You...you were all a part of this...charade?" Revan asks Ciras.

"That's right, Boss Man. Surprised we had it in us?" The sergeant grins. He jerks a thumb towards his soldiers. "It wasn't hard. All Ava and I had to do was recruit some off duty soldiers. Priel rigged the monitors to start and stop remotely. The rest just fell into place."

"Why?" asks Revan wearily. "Why would you do something like this?" He sounds genuinely pained by Ciras' betrayal.

"Oh because your gorgeous companion asked," Ciras answers matter of factly. He smiles at Mysteel and she bats her eyelashes back playfully. "Besides, I'm a hopeless romantic."

"What?"

It is Ava's turn to put an overtly familiar arm over his neck.

"Boss Man, I respect you," she drawls. "I respect the _fuck_ out of you. But when the goddess of love and beauty descends from upon high to pop your cherry, you don't decline. No, you get your pants down, your man pole up and you go to town on each other. I don't care what shitty rules your Order has. I don't care if you're an fucking inanimate object. _No one_ passes up a girl like that. Do what comes naturally. Do it until the two of you need hip replacements."

"Preach it, Ava, preach it!" Mysteel says excitedly. She squeezes Revan like a giant stuffed toy, giggling. Her triumph is momentarily replaced by confusion and she puts a finger to her lips. "Wait. In this scenario, am I the goddess of love and beauty?"

"Yes, Mysteel," Ava purrs.

"Hooray for metaphors!" Mysteel gushes.

Ava's face scrunches in confusion. "What the fuck is a metaphor?"

The room continues to shake with guffaws. Even I can feel myself cracking into a smile. Force, it is all so ridiculous. So juvenile.

It is...it is exactly what I needed.

Revan does not see the humour in the situation. He disentangles himself from their grasp and marches away, his back ramrod stiff.

"Rev, where are you going?" Mysteel calls out.

"Away," he states flatly. "I will not be part of this...this..tomfoolery. You may consider our 'date' annulled."

"But you promised!" she pouts. Revan pretends not to hear. He continues to make a beeline for the exit. To everyone's surprise, Noctua hobbles in front of him, blocking his escape. The crowd falls silent.

"You will honour your agreement, _vod_ ," orders Noctua.

Revan stares at her, perplexed. "Sister, are you _condoning_ this nonsense?"

"Of course not," Noctua retorts. "Had I known their intent, I would have taken proper measures. Be assured, the culprits will face censure." She flicks a morbid glare at Amarinthe. The younger Keeper of Sanctity lowers her gaze, red faced.

"But you swore _vod_ , damn fool that you are," says Noctua looking back. "So you must commit to your oath."

"Oaths based on false pretence do not apply."

The Keeper of Sanctity emits a guttural noise. I have come to understand the sound as disappointment.

"My brother," she growls. "It is not wise to deflect with a Mandalorian. We who hold the word of promise tighter than the clutch of death."

"I understand that-," Revan begins. Noctua clamps a hand on his mouth.

"Listen. Listen and _learn_ something for once," she says quietly. "Our actions echo beyond the veil. Everything leaves an imprint - _everything_ , the smallest of which can domino into jubilation or catastrophe.

Noctua holds Revan's gaze without flinching. She is one of the very few capable of doing so.

"The Force remembers, _vod_. It remembers every utterance, ever sibilant whisper. Just as the Well of Infinity surrounds us, oaths are the glue of that reality. It is the building block of cultures, the one unbreakable bond elevating us from gibbering idiocy to sentient beings. Without oaths, there would be no foundations and the universe would remain a primordial soup of raw chaos. An Oathbreaker tears down those foundations. Above all the sins men have perpetrated, _that_ is the one unforgivable crime."

She removes her hand and takes a step back.

"Many wondered why I heeded your summons. Here is why. I care nothing for your Republic or for politics and _certainly_ not for that fool, Atris. It was for balance, _vod_. _Balance_. The fulfillment of a cosmic tally."

Noctua pokes a finger on Revan's chest for emphasis.

"Pacts must be respected, its debts repaid. Honour your oaths, all of them. Otherwise, you are no better than the vermin we just exterminated today."

Revan blinks, absorbing the Keeper of Sanctity's council. Their kind rarely imparts knowledge for what they possess is too dangerous for untrained minds. Yet when they deign to speak, everyone listens. Even the Grandmaster is subservient to their voice.

Reluctantly, he turns around and walks back to Mysteel. Her hands are clasped near her breasts, hopeful. Revan stares into her beautiful sapphire eyes and takes a deep breath. His next words are spoken like a hostage held at gunpoint.

"One. Date."

Mysteel squeals in delight. She bounces up and down like an over caffeinated Ewok, clapping her hands in triumph. Vindicators erupt in new cheers, banging the butts of their rifles on the floor. Finally, Ciras waves his hands to get everyone's attention. "All right, all right settle down." He holds up a data slate. "I've tallied the bets. Looks like _everyone_ thought the Boss Man would say yes immediately...except Priel and me."

There is a chorus of grumbling. Priel rubs his hands together.

"Yeah, yeah get over it," says Ciras. "Everyone who hasn't paid their five credits, cough it up by tomorrow. Ava, the Boss Man didn't try to kiss her so you owe me a hundred. Choke on it."

Ava fumes with undistilled aggression. "Here's an idea. Why don't you choke on my balls?" she growls.

"Idiot," Ciras laughs. "You don't have any...oh." he edges away from Ava. So do all the males.

Ava breaks the tension with a bark of laughter. She slaps me and Ciras on the arm. "Alright, enough sermonizing. Someone beer me! And none of that watered down swill from Coruscant! I want to feel my brain cells dying, you got it?"

Her squad roars their approval. Cans and beer bottles are produced from supply packs. Liquor is poured out into beakers from water flasks. Within seconds Ava is challenging an underling to a drinking match.

Amidst this impromptu celebration, I see Mysteel slip an arm into Revan's and lean against his shoulder.

" _Hee_. All I need now is a banner that says 'mission accomplished' and it will be a perfect day!"

Predictably, Revan says nothing. He looks straight ahead, stone faced - a prisoner at his own victory celebration. Mysteel notices this and pats his head.

"Oh Rev, don't look so sad," she murmurs. "I'm not asking you to put out or anything. I just want you to show a girl a good time."

She leans in closer and whispers into his ear. "And who knows? If you try hard enough, you might actually enjoy it."

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _13 days, 5 hours, 34 minutes, 6 seconds before the Triumph_

The hangar bay is at peak activity, an overlapping riot of shouted orders and strobe lights. Soldiers march to their designated extraction zones while droids haul hoses to refuel incoming transports. They land every hour now, offloading fresh troops to relieve the 4th and solidify the Republic's grasp on Corvaine. Prisoner ships are also flying off, black hulking monstrosities destined for the Throneworld. No Oathbreaker will relish returning and grovelling before the High Council. It would be a kinder fate for their ships to freeze in the void.

 _Deliverance_ broods alone, its adjacent landing zones unoccupied despite the demand for space. Pilots have always avoided Revan's ship, a curious behaviour I have never understood. Perhaps they see the black ship as an ill omen. Or perhaps it is instinctive, like smaller predators sensing the boundaries marked by their superior.

Revan is conferring with the new command staff, discussing the logistics of transference and supply lines. The prattle is beyond my understanding so I make my way towards the troop transports. The last of the Deralian 4th Vindicators are marching towards their carriers. Ciras and Ava have already ferried their squads onboard. They stand at the cusp of their embarkation deck, waiting.

We clasp hands and shake. It is a sincere gesture, a reaffirmation of loyalty between forces that traditionally harbour nothing but animosity toward the other.

"Will you put in a good word?" Ciras asks.

"As long as you do the same."

"Oh have no fear on that account," says Ava. "Ever since Solace, we've been singing the Boss Man's praises. The army knows that not all Jedi are incompetent man children who treat the galaxy like their toilet."

"I'm...glad." The words are said with as much grace as I can muster. Ava's assessment is harsh, but the Jedi _have_ accrued a contemptible reputation over the decades, deservedly so.

In many citizens' opinion, Jedi have caused more problems than they solve. And who can blame them?

For years now, there have been whispers of dissolution. Disband the Jedi Order. Prevent another egomaniac from inevitably starting a galactic war. As time trudges on, these malcontents don't even bother to whisper. After all, what is the point of guard dogs that bite the hand that feeds it? Unfortunately, cloistered minds on the Throneworld refuse to acknowledge this fact.

That vexes me. It vexes many who would wish to see change. Alivia Nox was right about one thing. The Order must adapt to a galaxy that no longer revers us, or we will collapse under our own arrogance. I do not share any of my disquiet however. I simply nod at my companions, pretending to appreciate their left handed compliments.

"Hell, even High Command has started to pay attention," Ciras rambles on. "They didn't want to risk a joint task force, but they caved. That means the Boss Man's words carry weight."

"Damn straight. He can always count on us to watch his back," Ava adds. "Tell him that. When he calls, we answer."

This time, my smile is much more forced. Ava's promise is sincere but it does nothing but trigger ripples of unease. I would be lying if I didn't harbour a certain...envy for Revan's growing reputation. Being eclipsed so prominently is frustrating. To be outdone by a younger Knight is frankly embarrassing. But that is not my primary concern. No, it is the _army's_ reverence that I find worrying.

My brother prefers to operate discretely. And yet a cult of personality is developing around him nonetheless. Through improbable feats, Revan has unintentionally pulled himself into the limelight, attracting the eyes of higher powers upon him.

History has shown the folly of that objectification. Exar Kun, Ajunta Pall...they were our best and brightest, spawned from the Order's cradle. All turned out to be warped failures that left the galaxy worse for their meddling. If one were to map atrocities across history, the woe those heretics inflicted is greater than several generations of tyrants combined. _Combined_.

I bow my head stiffly. "I'm honoured. We all are."

"The honour was ours," Ciras replies, earnest. He turns at the sound of footsteps. My brother is approaching us. He has saved this farewell for the last.

"It was good to see you again, Boss Man." The sergeant breaks protocol and embraces my brother. Ava as well. Revan bears their camaraderie stoically.

"Likewise."

Ava waggles a finger at him. "Remember, you owe Mysteel a date."

The nerve above Revan left cheek twitches. "I will abide by the terms of the contract," he says wearily.

"Abide by the-? Holy fuck," Ava laughs, shaking her head. "Remind me not to invite you to any of my keggers. The last thing I need is litigation recited at me."

Ciras snickers. "Unbelievable. You know what litigation is but not a metaphor?"

Ava glowers at him. "Do you know what 'sodomize' means, Ciras?" she retorts. "Because that's what my rifle will do to you if you keep flapping your lips."

"What, is it Friday already?" Ciras asks airily.

Revan shakes his head and begins to turn away. "Until the next time, sergeants."

"Sooner than you might think," Ciras remarks. Revan stops and glances back at him, eyebrow raised.

"Don't you remember? The Triumph is upon us. Rumour has it that the Administration is planning to unveil something big this year. A special honour for the veterans who fought against Kun and the Mandalorians."

"Not just those assholes," Ava remarks. "I hear the navy is showing off a new ship, the new Imperator class." She spreads her arms. "It's supposed to be fucking _huge,_ the only one of its kind.

"Bigger than a Kandossi Dreadnought?" I ask.

"Bigger than anything the galaxy has ever seen," Ava replies. "Damn dick wavers."

"The point is, _everyone_ is coming," Ciras says firmly. He begins counting the guests on his fingers. "Army, Senators, planetary ambassadors...not to mention the veterans from the war. It will be the greatest gathering of Republic might in _decades_."

"The party will be _legendary_ , Boss Man. A sight to remember," Ava agrees eagerly. "And you'll be smack dab in the middle of it, won't you? The crown jewel of the Throneworld. Making the Jedi proud."

Revan stares at them, solemn. "No," he replies. "I will not."

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _This officially ends the first arc of the story. Hope everyone enjoyed it so far!_

 _Before anyone asks, I'm not turning this story into some sort of rom com. Since the entire story has been doom and gloom so far, I wanted to end this section on a lighter note. I'm just going to say that Revan keeps finding ways to avoid Mysteel's date._

 _The next section will transition to Coruscant where we will see the current state of affairs plaguing the heart of the Jedi Order. That means we'll be seeing some heavy hitters from the original KOTOR games like Atris, Kreia and yes Bastila. This will all lead up to the Triumph which is the meat of the story._

 _Anyways, thanks again to all my readers. And thanks to everyone who provided feedback. I hope everyone enjoyed the first arc. If you do, please spread the word. I hope you keep letting me know what you think. Thanks!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 12 . May 15, 2018_

 _Thanks you so much, that is a great compliment!_

 _ **RevJohn**_ _chapter 12 ._ _May 16_ _, 2018_

 _So true. Everyone basically loses in this situation. I hope this chapter lightened things up!_

 _ **TichePotato**_ _chapter 12 ._ _May 16_ _, 2018_

 _Thanks, glad you liked it!_

 ** _r4PT0rian_** _chapter 12 ._ _May 22_ _, 2018_

 _Thank you so much for your in depth reviews! I will need to go back and correct all the Mandalorian translations!_

 ** _Just a Crazy-Man_** _chapter 12 ._ _May 22_ _, 2018_

 _Thanks!_


	20. Revan: The Five Factors

_Successful warfare is governed by the proper implementation of five factors. These are not original concepts as wiser men have espoused them in the past. But the five factors have universal applications towards governance so they bear repeating._

 _The first factor pertains to the proper analysis of geographical conditions – your chosen theatres of war. A successful commander will be aware of the terrain and deploy their forces in a manner that maximizes their army's strengths. If your forces are mobile, put them on open plains. If it is strongest at range, let them attack from high ground, preferably from cover or a similar position of strength. The ease of traversal must also be considered when planning out supply lines. But be wary. Just as you capitalize on your surroundings, the enemy will attempt to do the same. Navigating your army through a narrow mountain range is a perfect prelude to an ambush._

 _Climate conditions account for the second factor. The commander should be aware of the seasonal tides and evaluate their ultimate impact to their plans. If conditions are favorable, utilize it to your advantage. A battle at high noon may be preferable to an evening skirmish if the sun's glare hinders the opponent's forces. In the same vein, it is preferable to let a frozen winter decimate hostiles rather than sacrificing resources to achieve the same goal. Some anomalies are random and will be beyond your ability to predict – drought, meteor showers or gravitational disruptions. Do not force engagement if these factors threaten your theatre control._

 _Your force's hierarchy comprises the third factor. It encompasses the marshalling of your army into its proper subdivisions, promotions based on merit among command staff and the responsible management of military expenditure. It is therefore imperative that officer roles avoid overlap and thus disrupt the army's efficacy. Conversely, an effective chain of command will have contingencies to replace a ranking officer should they be incapacitated._

 _The fourth factor is the army's chosen ideology, their belief system. Republic Army regiments place strong emphasis on citizen protection and peaceful coexistence with foreign powers. They will therefore benefit from strategies that cause less collateral damage and allow cooperative support. If your forces are recruited from a culture with a firm inclination towards natural selection then rewards for individual accomplishments and harsh punishments for failures will be encouraged. Ideologies are therefore varied and need not be benevolent to be effective._

 _The leader is an extension of the army's chosen ideology and represents the final factor. It is their responsibility to enact decisions adhering to their established belief system and thus ensure all units act in harmony. If the leader acts contrary to the fourth factor or is absent then they must be removed to avoid harming morale._

 _Adherence to the five factors will expedite the wielder's victory. Deviation is merely a catalyst for disaster. As proof, look no further than the cost to the Order for overlooking their fundamental issues._

Revan, _Observations: remark 9, section 5_

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Another passage from Revan's notes. This one is to establish that the Jedi Order has major internal problems. They are currently fractured and effectively leaderless, something I'm going to explore in the next few chapters. Sorry for the delay. Just need to polish some details out. Don't worry, a full chapter will be coming out soon! As always, thanks for feedback! Please keep it coming =)._

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **r4PT0rian**_ _chapter 13 . Jun 13_

 _Thanks! I'm glad you think my depiction of Noctua is on point. Hope you like her story going forward._

 _ **RevJohn1171**_ _chapter 13 . Jun 8_

 _Thanks! I'm glad you liked the prank =). The Army's got plenty of giant ships, but the wider Republic has never seen one like this!_

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 13 . Jun 8_

 _Thanks LeonCaboose. I'm glad you like my dialogue. I wanted the banter to highlight the different qualities of the characters. I hope I was successful =)._


	21. Chapter 14 - The Sword Saint

_**Chapter 14**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _8 days, 1 hour, 25 minutes, 9 seconds before the Triumph_

Coruscant. The Throneworld, heart of the Republic. No world is more synonymous with power. No cesspool has schemers so foul.

The fears and hopes of innumerable species gestate on this planet, threatening to burst from its spires and domes, the ghettos and the mega towers. It is a decaying wonder, scored and crusted with the contamination and squalor of countless millennia, a sickly orb bleached under the harshness of uncountable lights.

From the towering perches, one can observe that Coruscant's natural beauty has long rotted away. Now it is a tomb, burying its denizens with layers upon layers of a single, creeping hyper-city. This dead metropolis has consumed the once-great oceans and lush forests, replacing it with suffocating mountains of concrete and metal. Tangled, decaying and rebuilt until the accretions stretch unbroken from the deepest chasms to the most exalted heights.

There is no identity to Coruscant's architecture. Like its denizens, the Throneworld's landscape has subsumed into a melting pot of cultural indifference. One could look for miles in any direction only to be assaulted by an indecipherable iron jungle.

The halls I walk in are not immune. In keeping with the global slide into decrepitude, the Throneworld's temple has succumbbed to its own swamp of corrosion. Harsh pollution has bled the colour out the spires, eroded its runes and imposed a uniform pall of sooty grey on our memorials. It is an ossified relic to be tended, not extended. A symbol of virtue fading into irrelevance.

Despite this oppressive gloom, my mood is optimistic. Summons have arrived, an order to attend the Jedi's loftiest circles of governance. After days of stony silence, Atris has grudgingly granted an audience for our debriefing. In truth, it is an opportunity to see her squirm. _Everyone_ knows Corvaine was her mess, a political miscalculation that should have been impossible to rectify. Now that it has, the Council representative must swallow her pride and acknowledge her folly through clenched teeth. I will have the privilege of standing alongside her peers, silently gloating as she thanks us for cleaning up her decades old mess.

I am fully prepared to admit this fantasy is spiteful.

My companions have not responded to Atris' summons with the same assiduousness. A search for them has proven fruitless and it makes me impatient. Compounding my frustration is the unusually large crowd roaming our sacred halls. Many faces are unfamiliar, their accoutrements subtly distinct from inhabitants of the Throneworld. That is to be expected. The Triumph draws near and it is customary for Jedi enclaves to send their emissaries to the Throneworld. Embarking together from the Order's capital will be seen by the Republic as a gesture of unity. Unity that is virtually nonexistent among our vassals. The gathering is an empty ritual, conducted without comprehension of its original significance.

The looks these off worlders give me are cold, aloof. In centuries past - decades even, I would have seen expressions of concern and respect for distant comrades. Now something sinister lurks behind their faces. Where there should be brotherhood, all that exists now are the covetous eyes of rivals, eager to exploit the Throneworld's weakness.

In many ways, the Order resembles a fractured family. Like siblings, we squabble, jostling for dominance and recognition by our seniors. No doubt many wish to curry favour with the High Council by acting as willing vassals. Others will challenge the Throneworld, demanding resources or other gestures of good faith for falling in line. In this respect we are no different from any other political entity, a nest of rivalries and tenuous alliances always striving to further their own agenda. For all the graces the Jedi aspire to, we are capable of truly pathetic weakness.

Does that surprise you? To know that the guardians of the Republic are not so far removed from the flaws of lesser men? It shouldn't, for our empire has approached the fate that all great powers succumb to after reaching its zenith. Our fiefdoms sprouted like weeds, stretched its reach beyond reasonable limits and then inevitably fractured. Now the enclaves look to their own, jealously hoarding what scraps of territory they maintain. Do not think Corvaine as an anomaly. It is symptomatic of a disease that has been gradually rotting our foundations for centuries.

The archivists speak of this age as the Order's twilight, the time when our petty infighting will finally bring our existence to a guttering end. But then, we have been dying for decades now. Who knows how much remaining time the Force has graced us with?

My trek takes me through the temple gardens. Stepping out into open air, my instinct is always to cast my gaze upwards. The skies of the Republic's cradle are nigh as congested as its urban surfaces, scored and re-scored by the silhouette of a million vessels. The pattern is reminiscent of an insect colony, their innumerable worker drones scurrying to complete menial tasks.

Even the Throneworld's noise is eternal. Despite a network of sound dampeners, I can hear the distant roar of furnaces that never stop burning, the chug of cargo-lifters that never stop coming. The capital world to eclipse all worlds is addicted to the perpetual tumult. Enveloped in the distributed roar of billions as they lived, bred, toiled and expired.

I chance upon Mysteel frolicking with a group of younglings. They chase my sister around a thicket of brushes, shrieking and laughing without a care in the world. Instructors condemn this behaviour, loudly and frequently. Not only for the lack of decorum, but because Mysteel's interference threatens to subvert their authority. There is merit to that argument. Since joining, the children follow Mysteel _everywhere_ , likea litter of pups pursuing whatever amusement that tickles their mother's fancy. Who knows what nonsense my sister has filled their impressionable minds with.

"Mysteel," I call out. She stops her chase and looks up, sweat dripping off her brow.

"Oh, hi Shiny!" she says cheerfully. I grimace. My sister has a penchant for conjuring frivolous names. She glides towards me with her coterie of rugrats and pats me on my shaved dome. For good luck she always claims. If anyone else attempted this, they would be sprawled on the dirt with a bloody nose. With Mysteel, I find the practice oddly endearing and so bear the indignity with resigned acceptance.

When she leans close, I cannot help but notice that perspiration has soaked her robes, clinging to her contours and accentuating her breasts. Emotions stir within me, base desires all Knights are meant to suppress. Harbouring them is shameful I know, but it is hard to overstate Mysteel's physical perfection. I take a step away.

"Atris has summoned us. We should not keep her waiting."

Mysteel raises her hands in mock horror. " _Oh_ no, I'm not stepping back into that hornet's nest. The last time Atris and I were in the same room, sparks were literally flying."

"That's because you made a joke about sh-" I catch myself at the last moment, mindful of the children. "About...excrement. You know she hates jests, sister."

"Hey, it was a good joke," Mysteel protests. "Everyone laughed. At her."

One of the younglings tugs at Mysteel's sleeve. "Big sister, what's 'ex-excrah-ment'?" she asks innocently.

My sister giggles. "Oh, just the nonsense that spews out of Atris' mouth every time she speaks."

"Mysteel!" I glance around, furtive. Thankfully no Knights seems to have noticed her insult. "You cannot disparage Atris! Not here!"

"Why not?" she asks curiously. "She probably spreads her toast with the stuff."

I take Mysteel by the arm and usher her out of earshot from bystanders.

"This is the Throneworld. The walls themselves have ears," I whisper urgently. "And her influence on temple grounds has never been greater. Every brother and sister could be one of her creatures."

The notion seems to amuse my sister. "Isn't that a little dramatic? It's not like she's the Grandmaster."

Her words exasperates me. She truly doesn't see the danger. As much as I envy her spirit, it also gives me the greatest headaches.

"For all intents and purposes, she is," I press. "If you haven't noticed, the Grandmaster has made herself scarce lest Atris turn her zealous gaze upon her. And she is looking for a sign. _Any_ sign to bring Knights to task. Corvaine proved that."

"You're beginning to sound like T'shere," she pouts.

That stings. From Mysteel's stories, her sister's paranoia was like a disease. I release her arm. "That doesn't make my advice less sound."

A more cynical Knight might have taken my words to heart. But my sister has yet to be infected by the cloying distrust that plagues our psyche. Perhaps she is immune to it. "Shiny, you're adorable. Always looking out for me," Mysteel says sweetly. She plants a kiss on my cheek, making me flush. "And don't worry about me. If Atris gets her knickers in a twist because I bailed, she'll be absolutely _livid_ with Noctua and Amarinthe."

That takes me aback. "Why are the Keepers refusing the summons?

My sister shrugs, hands on hips. "I think Amarinthe said something along the lines of 'Atris can wipe her own ass. We don't answer to that bitch'."

That is a brutal but unsurprising answer. It has never been a secret that the Keepers of Sanctity hold the Master in utter contempt. Zealous as Atris may be, she has enough sense not to provoke their wrath. Alone among all branches of the Order, the Keepers are beyond her suspicion. They are beholden to no one, not even the High Council.

"Wonderful," I mutter. "Have you seen our brother then?"

"Try the Polemiston. He's always oomph-!"

The children have become impatient. They interpose themselves between Mysteel and I, tugging at her lekku. "Big sister, you said you would pick flowers with us!" a tiny Chiss protests. "Stop talking to the big scary man. Let's go!"

Mysteel laughs and scoops the child up. "Sorry Shiny, but I'm late for a play date. Looks like you and Rev will have to fend for yourselves."

She throws me a parting wink. "But tell Atris I said 'hi'. Or don't, because you know - she's a bitch." With that they scamper away. I consider pursuit but realize the exercise will be futile. Forcing Mysteel to cooperate is not for the meek of heart, especially with an army of children in the way. Shaking my head, I leave my sister to her play.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _8 days, 1 hour, 14 minutes, 37 seconds before the Triumph_

The Polemiston is a massive close combat facility, a dome of bronze and marble surrounded by pillars of glittering granite. Naked fires burn from iron braziers and stain the walls black. I can feel the towering scrutiny of stone ancestors, their statues glaring down on training grounds lathered in the scents of sweat and toil.

Combat echoes all around me, brutal and close-ranged. Brother duels with brother, Knights spin and weave around dozens of holographic enemies in tests of endurance. I see one sister parrying blows from a huge multi limbed droid, its girth and fighting style designed to mimic the Kornian Swamp Spider. No type of opponent is excluded in the Polemiston. As guardians of the Republic, Knights must assimilate the combat habits and doctrines of all foes. The alien, the Mandalorians. Even ourselves.

The necessity of swordplay never ceases to amaze me. We live in a galaxy with an infinite capacity for violence and to survive, civilizations are in a never ending race of escalation. Guns become more lethal, poisons more subtle and their payloads more virulent. But no matter what technological advancements are achieved, the primacy of the blade has never be eclipsed. From the primitive neolithic cultures to the ages of iron and final elevation to galactic empires, each species has carried their own form of the sword, preserved it, improved upon it. As guardians of society, it is fitting we wield the perfected form of the blade as our badge of office.

Battle Masters pace up and down the hall, watching Knights parry and cleave into each other, barking at them to work harder, fight smarter. Many mentors can spend their entire careers cloistered safely within our crumbling halls. But these instructors are proven warriors, spending their formidable years killing in the bloodiest front lines of our domain. There is Antwar, a Seklath who distinguished himself by slaying a dozen Massassi at Yavin IV. I see Glotch, the Knight whose charge broke through a year long stalemate at Kaiden II.

Master Hastur is the most vocal of them. He is a veteran of Dxun, a grizzled, gnarled root of an Akanian. Rumour has it he lost a good chunk of his face duelling a Taung. A Taung he subsequently strangled to death with bare hands. The good Master has never seen fit to correct anyone. Nor has he bothered with elective surgery, wearing his disfigurement like a badge of honour.

'Keep moving, damn you!' he shouts. The torn flesh of his cheeks and mouth gives his voice a lisping quality.

"Footwork. Footwork. A stationary Knight is a dead Knight!"

Grunts, blade clashes and war cries echo back in response. I have always enjoyed my training here. There is a satisfaction in martial pursuit I never found reading dusty tomes, those futile attempts to decipher cryptic advice from dead ancestors.

A Knight steps out of a practice cage, sweat dripping off pale hair. I recognize her. We were elevated to Knighthood through the same trials and thus share a friendly rivalry. Well, mostly. There has only been three instances where we needed to be escorted out of the training hall.

She glances up as I approach.

"Brother."

"Sister." I hand her a towel from one of the racks. She nods and rubs it vigorously over her head.

"Have you come to have some sense beaten into you? I am eager to break our stalemate."

"Not today, Meetra. I'm looking for my brother."

"Ah, say no more." Unconsciously, she begins tapping her fingers. Even at rest, my sister is never quite still. There is a febrile energy within her, eager to be unleashed onto the next battle. I understand that impatience. Meetra is young, unblooded. She is spoiling for an opportunity to distinguish herself amongst peers.

"Corvaine was a well fought campaign," she remarks. "A much needed salve for the Order's ego. If only I had been chosen as well."

"It isn't a competition, sister."

"No?" Meetra doesn't sound convinced. "You and Alek seem to have the right idea. Curry favour with Revan. Let some of his glory trickle down to you."

Her words stoke my ire. Technically, Revan and I share the same rank. But I am under no illusion as to the gulf in our standing. "I resent the implication, Meetra."

"Peace, brother." She raises her hands in mock surrender. "I meant no offense. I only wish I had thought to do the same. Maybe next time, I'll-"

"What is the meaning of this?"

The harsh voice startles us. I turn and see Master Hastur glaring down at a pair of Knights in a nearby practice cage. They are whispering to each other, their duel forgotten.

"Get your lightsabers back up!" the Master snaps "This is no place for idle chatter!"

One of the Knights bows. "Apologies Master. But I believe the Sword Saint has chosen to fight." He points past his sparring partner's shoulder. "In the Trial of Blood."

Hastur's ire is replaced by genuine curiosity. "Who?"

"The pride of the Throneworld. The Nameless One."

The announcement catches on like wildfire, eliciting excited murmurs all around. Knights halt their sparring and spill out of practice cages. They begin flooding the corridor like a school of sharks with the scent of blood. Even the Masters are joining the throng, completely ignoring the breach in protocol. My sister grins at me, her curiosity piqued.

"This should be interesting. It's not everyday a Knight from another enclave graces us with a display," she remarks. I can only nod in agreement. We follow the crowd.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _8 days, 1 hour, 4 minutes, 26 seconds before the Triumph_

The Trial of Blood is a circular arena, the largest in the Polemiston. True to its name, the arena's sandy surface have taken on a permanent crimson hue. It _reeks_ of violence, the aromas of lethal combat and battlefield exertion having submerged into the brickwork from countless duels. Brothers and sisters bleed here, and not infrequently for combat is fought in live action conditions. Fully charged lightsabers, no handicaps.

Combat in the Trial may only be undertaken by the fully initiated, but critical injuries are still common. Deaths were not unheard of. That may seem extreme but even in peacetime, it is necessary to hone your killing edge. Blood spilled is blood honoured, a mark of commitment to the ultimate goal of martial superiority.

Brothers and sister swarm the circumference, jostling for a good vantage point. Their voices are abuzz with excitement and many are already placing bets on the outcome. I muscle my way through the crowd and approach the arena's railing.

Two Knights stand within. On the far end is my brother. Revan's manner is solemn as ever. He is cowled and silent, a frightfully still statue focused on the objective at hand. Most of the crowd look to him, expectant. As a duel between enclaves, Revan has unofficially been branded as our representative, the preserver of the Throneworld's unimpeachable authority.

That is a tall order indeed for to my left stands Oriax, champion of Theol. Almost alone among the Order, his name has spread far and wide among the wider Republic. In his short career, Oriax has garnered a glowing reputation with the blade. 'The Sword Saint' his enclave boasts proudly. An honorific that hasn't been fit for use in generations.

The Zabrak certainly looks the part. He is gargantuan, at least a head higher than most Knights. Horns protrude from his head like a crown of thorns. His musculature is exquisite, each tendon coiled like a spring and rippling with barely constrained energies. To look upon him is to look at a statue chiseled for a god.

Meetra appears alongside me. There is a playful spark dancing behind her eyes.

"Care to join the wagering, Exon?" she asks. "Who do _you_ think will emerge triumphant? The Knight of the Throneworld or the Sword Saint of Theol?"

I muse on the question. "Ten."

"Ten credits? On who?"

"Ten minutes," I correct. "I'm wagering how long the bout will last."

She looks at me, one ghostly eyebrow raised. "You must be new at this, brother. You're supposed to bet on who will win."

I shake my head. "Trust me, Meetra. There is no question about the outcome. They don't call Oriax the Sword Saint because he is pious. I wager fifty credits that the bout will be decided in ten minutes at the most."

My sister grins. "I'll take that bet. You give Knights of the Throneworld too little credit."

The duelists ignite their blades and converge on each other, their footsteps raising motes of dust. Revan approaches cautiously, analyzing his opponent's every movement. Oriax swaggers forward, bare chested and brazen.

At ten paces apart they stop. Revan bows. The Sword Saint flourishes the blade in midair, and uses it to salute his opponent. They take their stances.

The murmuring stops. An oppressive silence descends upon the arena, so complete it drowns out the crackle of torch lights. Anticipation is pumping through each spectator's chest, thick and viscous like oil. I see cold sweat trickling down Meetra's chin.

The moment the droplet hits the floor, Revan is upon Oriax.

His first thrust misses by a hair as his opponent steps aside. A blistering combination of slashes is barely deflected, forcing Oriax to backpedal. My brother hounds him viciously, his shrieking blade leaving contrails of light. Overhead slashes followed by a flurry of quick jabs, too quick for mortal eyes to process.

Oriax is like a reed in the wind. He bobs and weaves, letting instinct and his supreme reflexes take him just out of reach of Revan's nipping bladework. The evasive maneuvers are impressive but Revan never gives him a moment's respite. He presses his attacks in an exquisite onslaught, working his sword like a smith up the anvil. The Sword Saint shifts his weight on his heels, dodging decapitation strikes, always positioning his blade with just enough heft to prevent injury.

"Our brother has the Sword Saint on the back foot," Meetra remarks.

Not so I realize. Oriax's actions are not the desperate flailing of an overwhelmed opponent. He is analyzing my brother's movements, gauging his distance and blade combinations. As Revan exhausts his energy and repertoire, Oriax is conserving his own. It is the mark of a cunning hunter, biding his time to unleash devastation at just the right moment.

I keep my thoughts to myself.

The Sword Saint bats aside a downward slash and leads with a thrust of his own. Revan parries, forcing Oriax blade down. He surges in, delivering a vicious elbow into the Sword Saint's ribs. Oriax shrugs off the blow, sending his own knee crunching into Revan's flank. I can almost feel the crack of ribs as my brother stumbles away. Then it is the Sword Saint surging in, slicing with murderous arcs. Revan recovers and meets the attack strike for strike. Their lightsabers begin clashing in earnest, lighting the air with coronas of discharge.

Oriax's movements are frighteningly precise. To the untrained eye, his attacks would already be an indistinguishable blur. But I can spy micro movements - subtle trajectory changes in mid swing designed to spoil his opponent's parries. The Sword Saint lives up to his moniker. Skilled with the blade, orthodox as all Knights of Theol are, but intelligent with it.

Faster and faster they go, two blades slicing, blocking and parrying with the brutality of two mortal enemies. I can feel bodies pressing close to mine, their eyes straining to capture the movements of these champions. For several heartbeats, their weapons clash and clash again, yielding no advantage. Then they spin apart, moving warily, each looking hard for the chink in an otherwise perfect defence.

"You've improved, brother," Oriax remarks with approval.

Without warning, he slashes. A deft twist of the Sword Saint's wrist allows his blade to whistle around Revan's block, sending it spearing into his midriff. My brother grunts, but narrowly spins away to avoid disembowelment. He completes the circuit with a counter slash to Oriax's exposed left.

Oriax tosses his lightsaber into his free hand and blocks one handed. He deflects the downward strike then the next five in rapid succession, heedless of the disruptor sparks showering over bare flesh. Revan presses furiously, never giving Oriax time to regain footing. The Sword Saint meets the attack, stroke for stroke. He appears unfazed with his off hand handicap, delivering ripostes and slashes with the same blurring brutality.

"Amazing," someone breathes behind me. "Such coordination and muscle control." I am forced to agree.

The Sword Saint uses his superior reach to keep Revan at distance, flicking his blade out like a serpent. My brother bobs and weaves his shoulders absorbing deep gashes to buy precious centimetres. A poor trade off. Through sheer tenacity he closes the gap.

In the blink of an eye, Oriax has stepped through Revan's shaky guard and lands a blistering haymaker into my brother's face. There is a thundering snap of bone followed by blood squirting in all directions. Gasps erupts from the crowd pelted by red rain. Revan reels, clutching his face. He raises his blade in a guard position, preparing to fend off reprisal but Oriax doesn't pursue immediately. He stalks his prey, eyes bright with battle lust.

"Never had it this hard, have you, brother?" Oriax remarks.

"This?" Revan slurs. His legs are wobbling and his eyes look unfocused. With a grunt, he cracks his shattered nose back into place. "I've had walks more harrowing than this scuffle."

Oriax laughs at his bravado and wades back in, lightsaber flashing.

They trade more blows – earth-breaking ones that smash the sand up around them, shattering the sacred stones and making the burning atmosphere blister. By now, I can see the strain in Revan's muscles, the red sweat pouring down his chin. My brother's lightsaber looks heavy in his hands, like a bar of lead. And he is taking hits now – peripheral ones, chipping away at the margins of his defence.

Oriax is sweating too, but he looks undiminished, invigorated even. The disparity in skill is showing. There is no doubt that Oriax is the maestro, forcing Revan's attacks to his tempo. He is faster, stronger, more subtle and he worked his lightsaber as if it weighed nothing.

The Sword Saint crashes his blade down, relying on its weight to smash Revan's blade wide. Revan flees to the right, but Oriax has switched sword arms again. He surges in, managing to rake his prey's leg.

Revan grunts, hobbling and trying to put distance away from the Sword Saint. Oriax grins as he closes in, tossing his blade back and forth between both hands. He feints left, then right before slashing, always changing tempo, never staying with one set of combinations. Several times he catches Revan wrong footed and scores cut after lightning cut.

Revan fights to keep pace with the Sword Saint, almost recklessly so. His lightsaber buckles from bruising strikes, spraying disruptor-discharge in all directions. But for every successful parry, Oriax punishes him a stinging liver blow or crushing backhand. Each crack of bone makes me wince. My brother begins gagging blood, half blinded.

I hear Hastur's worried voice. "This is getting out of hand," he declares. The Master jogs towards the arena gates. Master Antwar grabs him by the shoulder.

"No, let them finish it. The Sword Saint knows his craft."

"Would you sacrifice the Throneworld's champion in a pointless duel?" Hastur snaps.

"This is a _lesson_ ," Antwar replies firmly. He points to the crowd, a crowd watching in rapt awe. "Look at them. They see greatness, something to strive for. Knights will never improve unless inspired by their betters."

Hastur glares at the other Master but does not contest the point. Grudgingly, he folds his arms and lets the duel continue.

Oriax has stepped back from his latest flurry and takes stock of his opponent. Revan is dead on his feet. Bruises blossom all over a face caked with layers of blood. His left eye is swollen shut. Legs quiver and his chest heaves with the effort of staying upright.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it," Meetra mutters. Other whisper similar oaths under their breaths.

To his credit, the Sword Saint doesn't taunt him. He merely nods and surges forward, intent on ending the contest.

Revan attempts an unexpected maneuver. He slides under a decapitation strike, barreling his shoulder into Oriax's left shin. That unbalances him, just enough to fall on one knee. Revan pounces like a snake. He grabs Oriax's wrist, twisting it in a painful lock behind his back. Submission hold. A little more pressure and his entire arm will break.

"Yes!" Meetra shouts, clenching her fist.

The Sword Saint grunts, muscles cording out like iron. Then he cartwheels, reversing the polarity of the tension. Oriax's leg looms large, tracing a violent orbit into Revan's chest. I hear the pop and crack of a shoulder dislocating.

My brother shouts in pain. He thrusts weakly but Oriax is countering before he can fully extend. The Sword Saint spoils the attack with a deft parry, simultaneously crushing Revan's windpipe with his left palm.

Revan stumbles backwards, off balance, choking. Oriax grabs his flailing leg and heaves. My brother twirls in mid air and slams awkwardly to the ground, a bloody gasping mess. Within two heartbeats, a knee comes to rest between his shoulder blades. Oriax's blade slides within millimetres of Revan's neck.

"You are dead, brother."

My brother is too busy coughing blood to formulate a reply. By way of answer, he lets his lightsaber clatter to the floor.

"The duel is concluded," Master Antwar announces. "The Sword Saint is victorious."

An audible sigh erupts from the spectators. There is relief in that noise, but also disappointment. No Throneworld Knight enjoys the taste of defeat. I glance at the chronometer. "Ten minutes and two seconds, sister."

Like most brothers and sisters, Meetra looks downcast. She shoves my winnings into the palm of my hand. "Lucky guess," she grumbles.

"In my experience, there is no such thing as luck."

Meetra snorts in amusement and begins stomping back to the practice cages. "Don't get cocky, brother," she calls over her shoulder. "In our next bout, I'll have you grovelling at my feet."

I chuckle and turn away. The crowd is dispersing. While moving past, I notice the hard looks on some faces, the knowing grins on others. Many Knights are still whispering with wonderment of Oriax's prowess, no doubt imagining themselves performing such feats. The Sword Saint has just proven he is several calibers above us – not just a master of the blade but a true artist. Our martial pride has been kindled, and Knights will train harder than ever. Fresh commitment to their training would, at the very least, lessen the margin between themselves and the display they had just witnessed.

Master Antwar is wise. This is likely not the first time he had exploited a particularly gifted Knight to motivate others.

I make my way into the Trial of Blood. Oriax is supporting Revan with one hand and offering an ice pack with the other. He takes it.

"Sp-sparring with you is always a humbling experience, Oriax," Revan wheezes. My brother wipes blood pooling into his eyes. Oriax resets his dislocated shoulder with a deft twist. Once done, the Sword Saint claps him on the back. "Take heart, brother," he says lightly. "Last we traded blades, you lasted two minutes. Today, you lasted ten. The gap is narrowing. Who knows what the outcome will be on the morrow?"

Revan snorts, spitting out a gobbet of blood. "You are being kind, brother."

"I am being realistic." The Sword Saint turns, sensing my approach. His features brighten with recognition.

"Exon! Still alive?" he calls out. "Well, luck does favour the foolish."

"Then you should be the luckiest of us all," I reply.

Oriax laughs. The Sword Saint is a gregarious soul, always generous with his smiles and laughter. We clasp hands, and he pulls me in for a tight embrace.

"It is good to see you again, brother," Oriax remarks. "After Honrum, I feared that Melara would do the worst."

My face remains carefully neutral. Once that name would have stoked my blood. Now the memory of her cruelty merely aggravates me. The animosity bled out in our final duel, leaving me drained spiritually and physically. Time will never heal those wounds completely, but at least it has scabbed over. "Be assured, she is in no condition to pursue any more vendettas," I answer. "The campaign on Solace made sure of that."

I change the subject, forcing my tone to remain light. "But tell me, brother. To what do we owe your visit to the Throneworld? Surely it is not for the privilege of our company?"

Oriax grins, his perfect teeth glinting white against the fires. "The Triumph of course. Master Primus represents our enclave. I was allowed to join his honour guard."

"No doubt he wanted to showcase his prized pupil."

"No doubt," Oriax replies. It is not a boast, but a simple statement of fact. "Though this year, the invitation is not merely symbolic. Enclave leaders have many affairs to discuss with the High Council."

"You mean their grievances," I remark dryly.

"Of which there are many," Oriax agrees.

"Will you stay long?" Revan asks. "You must regale us with your exploits."

Oriax laughs. "I would much rather hear about the two of yours." He puts his massive arms around our shoulders. "Corvaine...ah now that is a campaign worth commiserating. Your temple brothers and sisters whisper about it incessantly, ever since I set foot on the Throneworld. I would learn from it."

"You are welcome to my report." Revan taps a command on his left gauntlet. "There you go, brother. A copy has been sent to your personal data module."

"My thanks."

"To be fair," Revan adds. "This whole sorry affair would have ended much sooner if they simply sent you."

Oriax face becomes more solemn. "No brother. What you overcame, that is something I could not accomplish. I would have hurled myself against the heretic's ramparts, achieving nothing but a pointless demise. I may not be wise, but I am wise enough to know that."

I smile. Oriax is hot headed and openly proud of his craft - as he has every right to be. But for all these faults, The Sword Saint exhibits a surprising amount of self-awareness. He sees the shape of others and admires true skill. Perhaps that is why I find him so likeable. He is a sign that the enclave's pettiness are not insurmountable.

"We should head for the debriefing, brother," I remark.

"Agreed."

Oriax slides his massive arms off our shoulders. "I'll leave you two to it then. Thank you for the duel and for your notes on the campaign. I will be sure to add them to our enclave's codifications on battle strategy."

We bow to each other. The Sword Saint salutes once more and leaves for his arming chamber while we head towards the exit. I keep a leisurely pace to accommodate Revan's many injuries. He keeps the ice pack firmly pressed against his swollen eye.

"You look terrible, brother. Perhaps you should abstain from the meeting," I say half in jest. "I'd be happy to stand in for you and take the lion's share of the praise,"

Revan casts a hard glance at me, his blistered mouth severe. "Praise, brother?" he echoes. "Is that why you think we are summoned?"

His words genuinely confuse me. "How could it not? We succeeded when so many failed."

"This is Atris, Exon," Revan answers, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "There are no successes in her eyes. Only degrees of failure."

He rests one hand on the arena doors and turns to face me. "Mark my words. When we step into the High Council chamber, we are going to war. Because with her, it is only ever war."

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Hope everyone enjoyed the glimpse into Coruscant so far. Sorry about the wait. I needed to figure out certain details about the enclaves. The next chapter will be focused on Atris._

 _Once again, thanks to all my readers. Please keep the feedback coming and spread the word if you like the story so far._


	22. Chapter 15 - The Trial

_**Chapter 15**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _8 days, 43 minutes, 57 seconds before the Triumph_

"And so we come to the main item," declares Veorim, the Speaker Majoris.

His announcement makes my chest flutter. Just being in the _Lex Camera_ invokes a sense of foreboding, entrenched deep as it is within the Northern Spire's bowels.

I expected a conversation in the High Council Chambers, not here. The _Lex Camera_ exists for administration, a place for bureaucrats to draft laws and debate on matters of Order doctrine. It also acts as the High Council's court, where Jedi are judged for infractions both small and large. The fact that Atris has summoned us here means she does not mean to debrief us.

She means to put us on trial.

The Council Representative has certainly stacked the court in her favour. Most of the Special Committee are not High Council members but emissaries from the visiting enclaves. These Masters are the most influential with the Throneworld, connected politically through trade or mutually beneficial policies.

They have been in session for hours now, with most of the discussion revolving on trade agreements and recruitment numbers. A whole raft of measures have been voted on, usually with much dispute. Annual tithes. The banning of holocrons and reading material deemed heretical. Acceptable training regimes. Even the most trivial issues of Force Crystal mining requires haggling and the tedium of listening to their petty arguments fray on my nerves. But finally, we are getting to the real business.

"Item 121945. Corvaine re-compliance. Will the Knights assigned to that campaign step forward."

Cowled faces turn from every angle, from the Commitee's podium to the general assembly. I am suddenly assaulted with the scrutiny of a hundred unkind stares. They judge me, every occupant, sifting my bearing for the slightest hint of weakness. I glance at my brother for support but he is already standing and walking down the isle. With a deep breath, I rise from the bench and follow. The feeling of walking towards an executioner's block is inescapable.

To distract myself, I study my surroundings. Unlike the High Council Chambers, the _Lex Camera_ is dimly lit, its flame pillars little more than sullen embers. Knights from many temples sit in ranks, facing the isle from both sides like a jury. Above them are heavy banners traced in red and gold thread, each depicting their enclave's unique heraldry. My eyes wander over the crossed swords banner of Dorin, the checkered shield with vines of Dantooine and the hooded Knight of Yavin IV. Prominent enclaves, come to pay fealty at the foot of the Throneworld.

The domed ceiling is grey marble. Upon it are a maze of carved script, every line copied from passages of _The Immutable Truths._ New passages are hammered in each year, usually by artisans or Order scholars. I have heard that the intent is to etch _The_ _Immutable Truths_ in its entirety. There are no words to articulate the futility of that endeavour for the original tomb spans thousands of volumes and supposedly covers every law written since the Order's inception. Unsurprisingly, many Knights mock the architects for their foolhardy endeavour. But to Atris and her historians, it is a worthy pursuit. The etchings represent sacrosanctity, the concept that Council Laws are inviolate as they are literally written in stone.

It is only when we near the Petitioner's Circle that I can truly see each member of the Special Committee. They are elevated on a massive dais, each occupying thrones of stone and brass. I count two dozen seated individuals, vassals from the far flung corners of our realms. The Masters look impressive, I admit, gathered in their various finery and attended by robed scribes who hover around them like flies.

Two Honour Guards stand sentinel behind each of their thrones. Many more are stationed in and around the dais' perimeter. I can hear gun-droids as they circle endlessly above us, as well as the whine of seeker-turrets in active service. The Masters are paranoid, all of them, insisting on incredible levels of security even within the most secure of all locations of the Republic. And yet, they weren't truly concerned about external threats here.

They were concerned about each other.

Their seating arrangement is strategic. Knights with higher status are placed closer to the center, their chairs taller and more elaborate. Notable individuals occupy this pyramid scheme. Veorim - Speaker Majoris and Master of Ceremonies, Cleandre, Fadix, Naravadan - Master of the Fleet. Other famed Masters, tempered during the long-running Sith Wars, sit closest to the middle – venerable Vandar of the two enclaves. Belapheron Primus, the one who elevated the Sword Saint himself.

But they are dim shadows compared to the one in the centre. Perched on the highest and most elaborate throne, I bear witness to one responsible for all our trials and tribulations.

Atris. The Master of Lore. The Exemplar of the Host.

The Platinum Bitch.

Her face is entirely absent of human qualities. Flinty blue eyes scrutinize me, unblinking and colder than the helwinters of Hoth. Her lips and skin are stretched taught like butter spread over too much bread. So severe, so frigid. It's as if Atris has only _read_ of emotions, making her attempts at pantomime all the more disturbing.

The accruements she dons are scarcely more inviting. Her robes of office have the quality of virgin snow. They are pure, pure like the two Echani standing behind her or the tight bun that rests on top of her sharp, unsmiling face. White framed on white. An almost comical declaration of moral superiority. She might as well bellow a challenge for someone to fault with her character. In my mind, these...overcompensations do her a disservice. Those who project infallibility have an alarming tendency to harbour the darkest secrets.

My brother and I walk to the center of the Petitioner's Circle and kneel. It is customary for the Speaker Majoris to tell us to rise. After several seconds, I realize Atris means to keep us on our knees. She keeps her silence for an uncomfortably long time.

"This Special Committee has conducted a review of your campaign," she says eventually. Even her voice is chilling, every word cutting like a shard of ice. "Speaker Majoris, are you prepared to give your assessment?"

"I am, Council Representative," Veomir's replies. His voice is high and formal, accented with the lilting notes favored by Coruscant nobility. "To put it bluntly, it is disgraceful. Utterly disgraceful. Do the Knights assigned have any adequate explanation for this failure?"

For a moment, I think I must have misheard. A failure? How in the hells could anyone come to that conclusion?

I look up at Veomir. Of all the Masters present, I respect this jowly Devaronian the least. His enclave is unremarkable, yet the influence this overfed fowl has over the Throneworld is arguably the greatest. Veorim is in broad terms a bureaucrat, more interested in the letter of the Jedi Code than its spirit. And like many of that wretched kind, Veorim possesses a mutable allegiance. He saw the momentum the Exemplar Host possessed after Kun's rebellion and readily prostrated himself at their altar. By sucking up to Atris and drafting all her onerous laws, his enclave has swelled with recruits and prestige.

"Forgive me, Master, but I fail to see how you arrived at this conclusion." I force myself to sound calm but irritation is already crawling up my spine. "Corvaine is retaken. There were no civilian casualties and ample Oathbreakers to interrogate. You have your victory."

"Victory, you say," drawls the Master next to Veorim. It takes me a moment to place his name. Sevius? No, Levius. Levius of Kriveer. "That is certainly not the impression I get when reading your report." He makes a show of perusing the data slate.

"Extensive damage to Corvaine's mining infrastructure, dozens of civilian injuries. Hundreds of our irreplaceable artifacts destroyed. Shall I go on?"

"The damage is contained," I protest. My voice sounds petulant and it makes me aware how ill equipped I am for verbal sparring. My strength has always been on an open battlefield, not with cutting words and eloquent insinuations. I glance at Revan, hoping he will take a leading role in our defense. My brother remains silent, his cowl obfuscating any attempt at reading his expression. He seems perfectly content for me to fall on my sword.

"And with the cordon, the wider Republic knows nothing of these events," I finish.

Levius raises a painted eyebrow. "Then what is this?" He enters a command on the slate and tosses it to me. I catch it and glance down. It is an article from one of Coruscant's major news networks.

 _"Corvaine massacre. Jedi kill thousands to punish rebellion. Husband's killer delivers wife's baby." -exclusive interview with Ava Onasi._

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _Good evening. This is the Galactic News Network, reporting live from Corvaine. For the past three decades, this system has been under the control of terrorists known as The Echoes of Exar Kun. But in a stunning turn of events, the Republic has liberated it from the yoke of Sith oppression. Information on the world's capitulation is scarce but the network is told that the Jedi were pivotal in its liberation. I am joined by Sergeant Ava Onasi of the Deralian 4th who participated in the campaign. Welcome, sergeant. May I call you Ava?_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _Call me whatever the fuck you want. I'm just doing this interview because I was promised snacks. Which I have yet to see by the way._

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _Oh right, err here you go. To begin Sergeant, there is a persistent rumour that the Corvaine rebellion was not instigated by Exar Kun's Sith disciples but by elements within the Jedi Order itself. Can you confirm or deny this statement?_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _What, you want a history lesson? Half the time I can't even tell the difference between those shit stain factions. All I know is there were tons of assholes in robes, and we massacred them. It was basically genocide."_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"G-genocide? Were the rebels unarmed?"_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Hell, they might as well have been. It was a bloodbath."_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"Oh...I-I didn't think Jedi were so violent."_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Neither did I. You know how Jedi like to cultivate this image of being peaceful prancing ninnies? All lies. They will mess your shit up, left, right and centre without lube. You don't fuck with the Boss Man, no sirree."_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"Err, who?"_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"The Boss! The guy calling all the shots! Are you sure you're qualified for this job? I've met neutron stars less dense than you."_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"I know what it means you cretin! *exhales* Let's start over. Can you give me the name of this boss of yours?"_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _*munch* *munch*_ _Holy shit! This stuff is amazing! It's like there's an orgy in my mouth. What's in this, Ecstasy?_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"You're chewing on a soiled wrapper."_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Soiled in Ecstasy?"_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"Sergeant, for fuck's sake, pay attention! I swear, I have half a mind to-"_

 _ **GNN Aide:**_ _"Sir! Language!"_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"Crap, umm edit the profanity out later. Moving on, Miss Onasi please tell us about the battle."_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Battle? Pffft try massacre. I thought I've seen some shit as a soldier. But the army's got nothing on those Jedi whoresons. You see, the Boss Man brought these scary looking bitches and they literally made the laws of physics bend and spread."_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"An...an interesting choice of words. Can you elaborate on what were they doing?"_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Fuck, what_ _ **weren't**_ _they doing? Heads were bursting, bones were snapping and guts were spilling everywhere. I was covered in fluids I didn't even know existed. It was like my twentieth birthday all over again!"_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"That's-that's horrible!"_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"You clearly have no concept of fun. Well, long story short, tons of Jedi died in agony. Or was it Sith? Meh, not important. What's important is that the Boss Man cleaved their leader in half. In fucking half! Not to mention he went and ripped a baby out between the wife's legs. Phew, just thinking about all this makes me giddy."_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"I...I think I'm going to be sick..."_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Hey, don't worry about it. I heard the rebels were breaking some outdated law about marriage so killing them was totally justified. Ethics for the win!"_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"Okay, we're done here."_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Are you sure? I haven't even told you my pitch for bottled orphan tears. You can taste the loss of innocence."_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"No, stop talking. Just leave and never return. Someone bring me a bottle of absinthe."_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Sweet, it's a party now. Hey you, make sure you bring enough to go around."_

 _ **GNN Aide:**_ _"Are you quite all right to drink, ma'am? You look really flushed."_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Oh, I'm better than all right, I'm as high as a fucking kite!"_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"What?!"_

 _ **Ava Onasi:**_ _"Oh that's right, I'm smashed out of my gourd right now. I am flat out tripping balls! Speaking of balls...come here, both of you."_

 _ **GNN Reporter:**_ _"What are you-? Help! Security! Security!"_

It is impossible keep reading. I drop the slate in disgust and make a mental note to strangle Ava next time we meet.

"This is all plainly embellished," I protest, shaking my head. "We cannot possibly be responsible for the Army's...lack of restraint."

"Truth?" Levius laughs. "No one cares about truth! Citizens want assurances of stability. Comforting fantasies to wrap their empty heads around while fumbling with their pointless lives. How do you think this debacle will look to them?"

His obsession with public image confuses me. But then I remember Levius is a native of Coruscant. His family is high in the circles of nobility and thus possesses many personal friends in the Senate. Normally a Jedi is sworn to forsake all personal connections to the past but evidently someone forgot to tell the Master that.

Levius' family is powerful, their brood scattered across multiple institutions within the Republic. By extension, these back channels allow the Jedi positive media and cutbacks. With a word, he can get the Senate to pass even the most onerous bills. The campaign on Corvaine was possible in no small part to his efforts.

"I understand citizens may misinterpret this," I begin. "But we-"

"They should not know this at all. You were entrusted to perform this discretely," Atris cuts in. "But now, the entire galaxy knows of your folly. The Army should _never_ have been involved in our affairs. You showed them our weakness and they will exploit this for future favors."

"I agree, Master" Veomir puts in gravely. "They have thoroughly embarrassed us, not just to the Army but to the wider Republic. I imagine the Senate crows are shedding tears of laughter by now." He lets our a derisive snort. "What were you _thinking_ when you stooped so low to beg our lessers for help?"

I prepare to fire a scathing retort but another Master beats me to it.

"Your insults do you little credit, Veomir," Vandar murmurs. The assembly turns to him, to the one they call 'the Venerable'. Master Vandar's voice is quiet, yet imbued with the subtlety of strength. His face is lined and weathered like cured leather, as old as an oak with deep set roots. Uniquely, Vandar has the arduous duty of occupying two Council seats - one on the Throneworld and one on Dantooine. Normally, this wouldn't be tolerated but in an age where our numbers dwindle, Vandar's experienced eye for recruitment is essential. His perpetually exhausted expression reflects the strain however.

Veomir glares at Vandar, irritation writ large. "Master Vandar, please do not interrupt, I am trying to-."

"Yes, Veomir. We all know you love the sound of your own voice," Vandar adds gently. He folds his hands on his lap. "But my capacity for pain is not what it used to be. Take pity on an old soul."

The jibe earns a chuckle from the general assembly. Veomir coughs and looks away. Typical. The Speaker Majoris has always been craven at heart. Confront him in the open and he will scatter like a startled deer.

"Am I the only one here who sees the truth?" Vandar asks when the noise dies down. "Corvaine is finally compliant. Many have tried. None have succeeded until now. We should be grateful to our brothers, not belittling them."

His words mollify my resentment somewhat. Master Vandar understands the necessities of compromise and is the closest thing we have to an ally among this lynch mob. I very much doubt Atris invited him to attend. But as the only other High Council member present, she is in no position to deny him. That does not stop Atris from voicing her displeasure.

"Vandar, it is...understandable that you come to Exon and your former apprentice's defence," Atris says in a low voice. "But we are trying to rebuild. The last thing we need is more attention into our affairs."

"Victory is victory."

"A pyrrhic one," Atris retorts. "We spent much funding this expedition. Our coffers are not unlimited."

Once again, Atris is being selective with the truth. Before Revan's intervention, there were already billions of credits siphoned into retaking Corvaine. Campaigns that all met with abject failure not to mention the hundreds of Knights that sacrificed to the meat grinder. Our costs were paltry compared to theirs, less than a drop in the sea.

I take a step forward.

"You came to us Masters," I say plaintively. "You beseeched my brother because no one else could succeed. This was an impossible task and you know it. Instead of chastising our failures you should be studying _how_ we broke the stalemate."

The expression on Atris' face makes me realize how futile my argument is. She isn't interested in my opinion. The Council Representative formed hers days ago, and it had already fossilized into gospel. In essence, Atris is the antithesis of an effective leader. Stubborn, tunnel visioned and utterly intolerant of opinions that do not conform to her viewpoint.

I have often tried to quantify where my dislike for Atris originates. It is not simply her abrasive nature. Master Vrook is similarly toxic and my disposition towards him can best be described as ambivalent. Perhaps my antipathy derives from the fact that she is essentially a charlatan. For before Atris entrenched herself in politics, the Master was a historian. While I was toiling away to earn every morsel of wisdom in the battlefield, she was ensconced in her spires, devouring knowledge with a simple flick of a page.

And _that_ is where Atris' flaws derive from, her frame of reference. She looks to our history and sees how perfectly our campaigns were fought, ignorant of the bias inked into every page or the omissions in truth. She has never experienced the brutality of war herself, never toiled in the fields of slaughter and realized the grind and sweat inherent to every conquest.

It is Veomir who responds to my outburst. "The whelp speaks out of turn," he remarks. "Such uncouth behaviour."

"Embarrassing," Levius agrees. "I hope you are not the standard to which the Throneworld raises their Knights. If so, they are in dire straits indeed." He turns to Atris. "You should have petitioned us, Council Representative." he remarks. "We would have made a gift of Corvaine to the Throneworld. And we would not have sullied ourselves to barter with these army...degenerates."

There are murmurs of agreement. Even Vandar looks hesitant to defend us on this point. Their barely concealed contempt makes my blood boil.

"Now, now Masters. Let us not be harsh," comes a new voice. All heads turn towards Belapheron Primus. The representative from Theol cuts an impressive figure, a Master whose record throughout the past three decades has been nothing less than impeccable. Belapheron achieved fame in the Sith Wars, winning uncounted battles leading up to Dxun. He had the honour of leading the final purge on Yavin VI and casting Exar Kun's wretched bastion to ashes.

Since taking a Council seat on Theol, the enclave has prospered to new heights. Not only is the caliber of Theol's warriors considered superior but every apprentice he personally trained has become a champion in their own right, the Sword Saint being the greatest of them all. It is no surprise then that Belapheron Primus has earned the honourific 'Primus Inter Pares'. The First Among Equals.

"True, these pups lacked restraint but that is understandable," says Belapheron. "We were all young and foolish once. We should take that into account when formulating our verdict."

Many Masters nod their assent. All except one.

"Bah, who cares if their tactics were unorthodox?" chimes Master Kho Zhorath. "No Knights were lost. The only casualties were the army's and we will shed no tears for them. That is cunning. Let the media have their filthy rumours. If we must associate with those fools, that is a small price to pay."

The Kel-Dor's voice sounds garbled by his breathing apparatus and it takes me a moment to understand his meaning. Nevertheless, I am pleasantly surprised by his vote of confidence.

"I believe we are focusing on the wrong elements," says Vandar. He turns to me, fingers steepled under his broad chin. "If your report is to be believed, a greater game is afoot. Is it true that these heretics are corroborating with other traitors? Possibly from different worlds?"

"It is, Master Vandar," I affirm. "We believe there is an imminent offensive against the Order. We should pursue-"

"Do you have hard evidence?" Veomir demands. "Did you find communiqués during your espionage? Transcripts?"

"We have found none," I admit. "When we seized their data banks, they were already purged."

"So not only did you fail to capture this supposed mastermind, you have added another tally to our list of enemies," Atris growls. Scorn drips from every syllable. "As if Mandalore and his pet psychopaths were not enough!"

"If I may interject, Master Atris, the operation was not bereft of results," declares Kho Zhorath. "Our Consulars have extracted interesting information from the Oathbreakers. They all corroborate the existence of a 'Silent King'."

"That is not a name," Veomir complains. "We need hard facts. Locations to investigate. Heretic numbers. Did your Knights produce any of that?"

"Nothing specific yet," Kho Zhorath concedes. "But we are close to breaking them. Very close. Perhaps if the High Council would lift the ban on certain techniques-"

Atris raises her hand, silencing Kho Zorath. She fixes her icy glare onto him. "I advise you to choose your next words very carefully," she says softly. "You're enclave has always teetered too close to heresy."

I can sense Kho Zhorath's unease, at the Master many label 'The Crow Lord' and the representative Atris tolerated least. Kho Zorath is of Dorin, and his cabal of Sentinels are well situated to apprise us of activity within the Inner and Outer Rim. The Seers of their enclave are also famed for prescience, but their failure to warn about Exar Kun has earned them no shortage of suspicion.

To compound matters, there are persistent rumours that their enclave have eschewed the tenants laid down by the Exemplar Hosts and have continued practices now deemed heretical. Were it not for their continued supply of intelligence their Kho Zorath would not be suffered to remain.

"With respect Master Atris," he begins. "The practices you banned were deemed acceptable for generations. Even the Grandmaster-"

"The Grandmaster should have imposed sanctions instead of letting your brood run amok," she says flatly. "The High Council has rectified her oversight."

"But-"

"Your persistence does you no favors, Zorath" Atris cuts in. "It reeks suspiciously of defiance. Do you want another full inquiry into your enclave's activities?"

There it is. Atris' diplomacy at work. It is a technique that can be best summed up as browbeating people into submission. Combined with her lack of empathy and low tolerance for naysmiths, many Masters complain she is unfit to be a Council Representative.

One would think Atris would learn to adapt but in truth, the process of social interaction is a mystery to her. Her soul is that of iron. Utterly uncompromising, unmoving and without the capacity to change. And in her quest for spiritual purity, she has sacrificed what many would consider common sense.

"Kho Zorath is merely zealous in his concern," says Belapheron mildly. "We all know full well that the banned practices carry moral peril. The good Master would never engage in heresy, I personally can vouch on that."

The Kel-Dor bows, relieved to escape the confrontation. "As you say, Belapheron. The wisdom of the Exemplar Host is irrefutable."

The Primus' diplomacy seems to placate Atris. She reclines in her seat and unclenches her hands. Everyone breathes a little easier, but a cough draws her ire once again. Atris' pinched scowl hovers to the Master furthest to her right. "Do you have something to add, Navadaran?"

"Yes, Atris. As a matter of fact, I do." The Selonian sounds completely unperturbed by Atris' hostility. With her leonine features, the Master resembles a bored feline resting atop her brass throne.

"Why has any of this been brought to the table?" she asks. "Our time is precious. We should be focusing our attentions on the Outer Rim. Or is the report of a Mandalorian incursion not worth discussing?"

The other Masters perk up. Navadaran is the Master of Yavin VI, given the task of rebuilding its ruin enclave after its despoilment by Exar Kun. When not overseeing the Lost City's reconstruction, she spends much of his career liaising with the Republic Navy, patrolling hot zones and skirmishing with pirates. The Master has thus proven knowledgeable on the Republic Navy, on ships and fleet tactics. Void warfare is not something that that the Order is reputed for so Navadaran's first hand knowledge has been a boon to our own ship assets.

"Another one," Vandar observes. "If our augers are correct, the skirmishes with the Mandalorians have increased threefold over the past month."

"These are no true Mandalorians," growls a baritone voice. Navadaran glances at a thickset Gran sitting seven seats apart.

"The ships fly clan colours, Fadix," she declares. "That makes them Mandalorians."

"I think not," Fadix muses. "Their last great defiance was at Dxun. The filth you encounter are the dregs of our society, scrapped together by the Taung tyrant trying to replace his dying species. We could crush them like a gnat between our fingers."

The Master's statement brims with self assuredness. Fadix represents Morio, an enclave with the fortune of settling on a relatively industrialized world. Their Knights have prospered from archeological discoveries, many which they jealously hoard for themselves. And with their access to factories, the war gear Morio produces is reputedly superior to Order standar. They enjoy many advantages trading with other enclaves and Fadix is not shy to display the fruits of it. Ermine lines his silken robes. The fingers linked over his prodigious chest are studded with diamond encrusted rings.

"Perhaps, but I can corroborate Navadaran's findings," says Kho Zhorath. "My Sentinels have reported disturbing activity in the Outer Rim worlds. Specifically worlds we herded the surviving Taung to after Dxun.

"What kind of activity?"

"They are reporting mass Taung migrations to nearby systems. Mandalorians have been sighted in the ghettos and pirate stations. Prison Worlds have also reported dozens of breakouts." Kho pauses to let the import settle in. "I believe the Old Blood are amassing. And it seems they are recruiting the disenfranchised to bolster their numbers."

"How is that possible?" asks Levius. He leans forward on his throne, stroking the luxurious braids on his chin. "I thought we had those worlds classified _persona non grata_. They were supposed to die a slow death after Dxun."

"Vermin," Veomir announces in disgust. "They always find a way to survive."

Fadix's eyestalks are lowered and tense with aggression. "I _knew_ we should have excised this cancer decades ago." he growls. "While we tarried, those vermin have been allowed to spawn in the dark. We allowed them to amass their strength and drawing out plans for revenge. Now we must expel more resources to address this...irritant."

Navadaran wrinkles her nose. "If you are suggesting we should have culled them after the war, you are more insane than I imagined."

"Why not?" Fadix retorts. "Is it not the highest honour for them to die in battle? They probably would have thanked us for granting them that glorious last stand. If the Senate voted wisely decades ago, we wouldn't be having this discussion."

The Comittee share knowing looks. After their humbling, the Senate convened to discuss how to deal with the surviving Taung. Complete extermination was out of the question although the prospect was enticing and well within our power to do. Suggestions to integrate them as citizens were scoffed at. Too many cultural and ideological differences Senators claimed. Not to mention the unspoken fact that many citizens looked down on Mandalorians. They saw their crude emblems and clan doctrines and called them savages, barely a step above animals.

Regardless, the cost of assimilation was deemed too high. The Senate settled for a half measure, routing them to frontier colony worlds barely capable of sustaining life. With the paucity of resources, it was estimated their population would dwindle to nothing within five years. The Navy noted many Republic citizens fleeing the war had also been ensnared in those death traps. This fact was glossed over, determined to be a acceptable trade off by Senators.

"I agree Fadix." Belapheron says calmly. "The Taung should have been dealt with after Dxun, yet we should not ignore their current threat," He gives Navadaran a nod. "Let me bring up this issue on Theol. I'm sure our own council will be willing to add our strength to your patrols."

"My thanks Belapheron, but I fear one more enclave is not enough," Navadaran replies. This is a probing pattern. They are looking for holes in our fleet's patrol routes. Their warlord is testing our defences."

Fadix gives the Selonian a pitying look. "Are you worried your enclave is not up to the task?" he asks slyly. "I would be happy to renegotiate our defence shipments to Yavin IV, provided you can reciprocate."

"This issue has already been voted on, Master," Atris says crisply. "Your exports on lightsaber and shield components has been capped at a hundred units per month. Any more will see you establish a monopoly on Order trade."

Fadix inclines his head. "Of course. But the quality of our war gear is superior, everyone knows that. If I overstep my bounds, it is only because I wish to see the entire Order elevated to our standards."

"No doubt while bloating your coffers," says Atris. "You have already had your tariffs lifted for eight months. Do not push your luck."

"With respect, Master. My weapons-,"

"Silence," orders Atris. The next time you protest is the last time you speak in my presence."

The Gran grumbles under his breath. Once again, it is Belapheron who mends Atris' broken fence. "Nobody doubts the quality of your arms, Master," he says smoothly. "Perhaps you would agree to a reduction in annual tithes. I'm sure the Throneworld would be amenable."

"Perhaps," Fadix admits.

Atris taps her armchair impatiently. "Any further negotiations will have to wait. We have tarried too long." She shifts in her throne and addresses us.

"Supplicants, we are ready to render our verdict. Before we do, have you anything to say in your defence?"

At this point, I doubt anything short of divine intervention will sway the Committee. But it is not in my nature to admit defeat. In that aspect, the Council Representative and I share something in common.

"Only this. The arch heretic Alivia told me the Jedi needed to evolve," I begin carefully. "She was not wrong for her enclave has thwarted us for thirty years. All because we refused to change our templates of war."

I pause, testing the room for signs of outrage. No one argues...yet.

"Our enemies have the measure of us, Masters. We need to evolve. That is why we joined our strength with the Army and why we implemented new doctrines. Had we not, our campaign would have met with failure. I stand by our decisions."

The Special Committee mutter amongst each other. I take it as a reassuring sign until I hear Atris' voice. It is steeped in suspicion.

"New doctrines?" she repeats softly. "Explain yourself."

The menace in her tone is palpable. From the corner of my eye, I can see Revan shaking his head. He does not want me to pursue this. Had my humors been more balanced, I would have seen why. But I am frustrated. Angry at being belittled. Furious at Atris' absolute refusal to admit fault. I take out a data slate from my robes.

"My brother has been codifying new rites of war," I announce, waving the slate. "Through a comprehensive analysis of our battle records and success ratios, he is putting forth suggestions to remove any weaknesses found in our forces. It is a sublime piece of work, one that will benefit the entire Order upon completion."

The hall is abuzz with curiosity. Some of the audience look curious, others scornful. Atris' face is tight with anger. She extends a hand and the data slate flies out of my grip. The Council Representative wills it into her palm, and peruses its contents, lips pursed.

 _"Observations, A Treatise On Battlefield Strategy"_ she reads in a frosty voice. Her jaded eyes settle on Revan. "You mean to tell me that you have been documenting our weaknesses? Writing a blueprint for your coup?"

My jaw drops. I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. People have a tendency to cherry pick words or take things out of context to fit their argument. But this...this goes beyond the pale. "No that is not-" I begin.

Atris breaks the data slate, crushing it like tin foil. She tosses the scrap metal into the nearest fire pit. I stare at her in disbelief.

"What are you-" I begin to choke out. "You cannot seriously be condemning our efforts!" My voice is practically a snarl. The emotions simmering in my chest threatens to burst out in mindless rage.

"Not only do I condemning it, I am charging both of you with conspiracy," Atris growls. "By flaunting this heresy, you have shown a blatant disregard for the sanctity of the Jedi Codes of Conduct. I have half a mind to throw you in cells with the other Oathbreakers!"

My hands are trembling. At that moment, every instinct urges me to leap over the dais, smash the honour guards aside and beat Atris' sanctimonious face into a bloody pulp.

I would have done it. I would have forfeited my career right then and there had I not felt my brother's reassuring hand on my shoulder. Through a mire of red haze, my eyes focus on his. He is calm. Balanced. Not one word uttered by Atris or her vile cronies has managed to find purchase. There is something comforting about that.

Revan has a plan. My brother _always_ has a plan. Pity the fool who engages in a battle of wits with him.

"You will forfeit any other copies regarding your studies," Atris rants on. "I will personally see that you-"

"How do you see your reign ending, Master Atris?"

The words are spoken quietly, but it manages to cut through Atris' tirade. The Special Committee turn towards Revan, surprised and bemused.

"The disgraced Knight isn't mute after all," chuckles Veomir. He leans back on his chair with a crooked smile. "The Grandmaster reigns, you should know that. We are an extension of her will."

"Truly?" Revan echoes. "May I assume you have been given the Grandmaster's personal seal in her absence? May I see it?"

Veomir's smile dissolves. Fadix and Navadaran exchange worried looks.

"No? Because if she didn't, it means this Commitee is conducting High Council affairs without her approval. Under Article 25 of the Sermino Provision, that is a punishable offence."

I have no idea whether anything Revan just said is true. But the fact that nobody has laughed us off the Penitent's Circle gives me hope. Leave it to my brother to find obscure loopholes within the Jedi Code of Laws.

Veomir's eyes flare at Revan's impetuousness. "Don't spout doctrine at me, _boy,_ " he growls."We are conducting this trial with her _in abstenia_. That is a valid protocol."

"Only in wartime. Are we at war, Master Veomir?"

Veomir's neck purples. Despite possessing a Master's rank, he is surprisingly poor at masking emotions. "I don't have to listen to this," he sputters. "I have written more about the _Lex_ than you will ever learn in your pitifully short life."

"Would you care to wager on that Master Veomir?" Revan replies calmly. "Can you recite all thirty thousand _Canticles of Absolution_ alphabetically? Pre and post revision? How about the seventy volumes of _Principles Majoris_? Do you _really_ want to find out who knows more about the minutiae of Jedi Code in front of your peers?"

At this Veomir hesitates. My brother's reputation as a polyglot is well known. As is his attention to detail. It has seen him master lore many would struggle to read, much less pronounce.

"Enough," snaps Atris. Her face is whip taut. "These delaying tactics are pointless and underhanded. I represent the High Council, who speaks with her voice. Corvaine's compliance was undertaken with the Grandmaster's blessing. Do you refute our wisdom?"

Revan bows. "Not at all. And I know the High Council has far too much integrity to subvert her wishes."

Atris' expression darkens. The Council Representative may not have been subtle, but even she could detect the hidden barb.

"And yet I cannot help but notice the friction between you and the Grandmaster."

Unease ripples within the Committee. What my brother says is true but no one has ever dared to point it out. At least not in such a formal gathering. He is treading on dangerous ground. Atris shifts in her seat, a restless feline boxed into the corner. "I have no animosity towards the Grandmaster," she declares. "We all serve at her convenience."

Revan tilts his head to the side. "Then why has Master Veomir been conspiring with high ranking Order members to have the Grandmaster removed?"

The audacity of that statement elicits startled gasps, none greater than from Veomir. He tries to cover the slip with an exaggerated cough. "W-what foolishness is this?" he demands.

Kho Zorath steeples his fingers and leans forward. "These are damning accusations," he says. "What evidence do you have of collusion?"

"This is the Throneworld," Revan says simply. "The walls themselves have ears. And with the security upgrades you generously donated, that is literally true."

Veomir slams his palm on his knee. "Hah! He admits it! He admits to performing espionage!" he snaps. "That is a felony, punishable by expulsion!"

"But is it true?" Navadaran demands. "Have you been conducting back door meetings without our knowledge?"

"Of course not!" Veomir scoffs. "Can't your see the upstart is trying smear me with false accusations?"

Revan rummages in his left sleeve. "I have here a transcript between Veomir and Zhar Lhestin recorded yesterday at sixteen hundred hours, within the Grand Hall. Another one with Dorak at eight hundred hours inside the Gardens and one with Corin at twenty two hundred hours - Dining Hall. Security footage will corroborate my statements but the point is, all these meetings revolve around bringing a vote of no confidence against the Grandmaster. In exchange for favours of course."

With each word the Speaker Majoris becomes more and more pale. His breath comes in forced rasps. His anxiety does not go unnoticed.

"Soliciting promises. Conspiracy to overthrow the Grandmaster. I do believe these things are called mutiny," Revan continues. "A jury will have to decide that, but I'm sure they will find the transcripts I've compiled quite illuminating. What is your opinion, Master Veomir?"

He looks at the sweating Master impassively. So does every pair of eyes in the General Assembly. Veomir grows more and more fearful. I can see sweat drenching his armpits.

"Veomir?" Vandar presses.

The Speaker Majoris stands suddenly. "It was for the good of the Throneworld!" he gasps. The hall erupts in uproar. Many Knights are pointing at him and shaking their head in disbelief. "Suni has lead us all astray! Y-you can't condemn me for looking out for the interests of the Order! I-"

Levius appears beside him and clamps his mouth. "Be silent you fool!" he hisses amidst the tumult. "Can't you see that the whelp is bluffing?"

Everyone looks back at Revan. He inclines his head.

"Your instincts server you well, Master Levius" he admits. "I possess no transcripts or recordings, only the knowledge that he spoke to Masters of import. But I do not need to eavesdrop for Veomir's intentions are painfully obvious. The Speaker Majoris is Atris' creature and her rivalry with our esteemed Grandmaster is one of the worst kept secrets on the Throneworld. That doesn't make Veomir's confession any less true. Or his actions any less contemptible."

He stares dispassionately at the trembling Master. Veomir's mouth opens and closes, sputtering like a broken engine.

"You have made a career sucking up to the mighty, Speaker Majoris," Revan states. "How does the quality of Atris' proverbial teat taste now? Does it stink of dust and failure?"

"She ordered it!" Veomir trembles. "She said it would serve the High Council's interests! I am a messenger, nothing more! I-"

The crack of wood silences the hall.

Atris is standing. Her right armrest has been crushed into mulch. She glares at Veomir, who wilts like a plant in the sun. "I will deal with you after the meeting," she says hoarsely. "Until then, say no more."

She returns her glower towards Veomir's tormentor. The nerve under Atris left eye twitches. The Council Representative does not realize how much that tic betrays her, how it reveals the bubbling fury smothered under that iron curtain of icy discipline. "And you," she growls at Revan. "Do not think I am ignorant to your plans. Deflect all you want, your forked tongue will not spare you from punishment."

Revan bows low once again. "As you say, Master. But do you deny trying to overthrow the Grandmaster?"

"Of course I deny it," Atris snaps. "There is no dissension! Only the conspiracy theories of a disgraced Knight!" Blood drips down her bone white knuckles. "The Grandmaster and I speak with one mind. One voice!"

Revan scratches his chin, thoughtful. "And yet your ideologies are diametrically opposed," he observes. "The Grandmaster has drafted policies that you veto on a daily basis. And lest we forget, she has seen fit to use her womanhood to produce an heir. Yours I imagine must resemble a shrivelled prune by now."

The general assembly gasps. Some Knights are shouting "blasphemy!" or even less flattering denouncements. But most are stifling laughter that threatens to erupt from their breasts. Even I am forced to let out an involuntary chuckle. The mockery sits ill with the Exemplar of the Host. Defiance was never a dish she could stomach.

"Enough!" Atris seethes. Her eyes are wide over pale skin, almost feral. "You will address me with the respect I am due!"

"Respect is earned," Revan says quietly. "What have you done to earn yours?"

For a moment, disbelief renders the entire hall mute. Did my brother truly challenge her? The Exemplar of the Host?

Revan sweeps a hand to the crowd. "Behold the tally of your accomplishments. The number of apprentices you have taught stands at zero. Since your election, our number of battlefield casualties and exiles exceeds the intake of recruits. Each month sees more and more enclaves slip through Throneworld's fingers. All because you refuse to meet dissenters halfway with your puritanical brand of rulership."

He shakes his head in disgust. "Corvaine's rebellion should never have happened. How many planets have we lost through stubborn principle? How many could be tamed with a quiet word rather than stoking them to revolt?"

Many of the audience nod in agreement with his assessment. More than one Knight shouts "Hear! Hear!" The Special Committee exchange worried looks. Their grasp on the trial is slipping, stripped away by the long gestating resentment Atris has fostered for decades.

The Exemplar Host had thought their rule inviolate. They had shoved their onerous doctrines down our throats, meting harsh punishment to any who defied them. But now that Revan had exposed their hypocrisy, our brothers and sisters feel emboldened to push back once more. Thick headed as she was, even Atris could read the mood in the room.

"I am preserving the Order's purity!" she shouts over the grumbles. "There is so much rot in our foundations. It all needs to be cut away!"

"Start with yourself!" someone shouts to much applause.

My brother's voice cuts through the cheering. "You are famed for harsh honesty, Master Atris so I will extend you the same courtesy," he says. "You are wasting your time usurping the Grandmaster. The Exemplar Host's rise was a knee jerk reaction to Exar Kun's rebellion. It had its chance to lead but it has done nothing but sown dissent. I could care less what rhetoric you wish to spout as long as the Order _prospered_. But after thirty years, I can say without reservation that your track record leaves much to be desired."

The general assembly begins clapping. Many are shouting insults or more dangerous slogans.

 _"Inadequate! Inadequate! Inadequate!"_

The chant is taken up by the entire room. A rumbling tide of belligerence that shakes the very foundations of the hall. Veomir rises awkwardly from his throne. "Th-this is insubordination!" he protests to no one in particular. "To go against us is tantamount to heresy!"

Kho Zorath looks at him. I can almost sense the disdain leaking out of his mask. "Do you speak for Atris now, Veomir?" he asks. "Or does she have her fingers so far up your ass she can puppet you at will?" Veomir reddens but says nothing. The other Masters are obscured by their honour guards. Their bodies are tense, their blades unsheathed.

Atris remains standing, absorbing the waves of denunciation like a defiant cliff face. It is a losing battle. Even the most stalwart mountain erodes through time and the downpour she endures is apocalyptic. The fury in her eyes bubbles like molten lava. Her lips tremble and the vein on her temple throbs like a bloated worm.

And then she breaks.

" _No more!"_

Her condemnation sweeps across us like a shockwave. Furniture breaks. The domed roof cracks and shatters, ruining thousands of passages from the _Immutable Truths_. Banners snap off their hinges and flutters down the floor. Even Veomir is thrown to the floor, collapsing like a mewling babe.

It takes seconds for the dust and debris to settle. In the aftermath, the General Assembly watch Atris with wary eyes. She stands panting, shoulders shuddering. Her eyes look unfocused. Levius staggers to her side.

"Master, perhaps you should call a recess. We should-"

Atris ignores him. She stabs a finger at the assembly. "Mark my words. _None of you_ will stand against my will. I will see the Order restored!"

Levius eyes widen. "Atris, stop this! You can't threaten-"

The Master is shoved aside. "Anyone who fights against these reforms is fighting against salvation!" Atris snarls. "They will be punished. Everyone! Including the Grandmaster and her sinful get!"

The entire assembly stares at her, slack jawed. The silence is stifling. Many suspected it of course, even we of the lower orders. Atris may even have mentioned it in confidence to her trusted bodyguards. But to bellow it out in the open, in the sight of scribes and menials...well that is heresy.

And in a hall of her peers no less.

Amidst the carnage, a Knight under Morio's banner stands. He doesn't leave but slowly turns his back from Atris. Another Knight from Dantooine follows his example. Then another. Soon three quarters of the assembly have presented their backs to the Exemplar of the Host.

The symbolism in this gesture is unmistakable. By shunning Atris, they are defying her, stripping the Exemplar Hosts of any authority they might presume to have. Never in three decades has their power base been so insulted. Well, Corvaine perhaps, but that was one insignificant enclave. This...this is another level entirely, the full wrath of the Order displayed in the cradle of our empire. Atris' eyes regain a measure of clarity. With creeping horror, the Council Representative realizes the awful truth of the spectacle before her. Blood drains from alabaster skin.

"This...this meeting is concluded," Atris whispers. She turns abruptly and rushes throughout the side chamber, her Echani handmaidens tight on her heels. Veomir waddles after her, begging her to wait. Levius hesitates then stalks away as well. The other Master stare dumbly at each other like a lost herd. Vandar salvages what remains of their dignity.

"Brothers. Sisters," he says softly to the crowd. "I apologize for this...hiccup in our proceedings. But the day does grow short and we are all weary. Please, return to your quarters and rest. We will reconvene on the morrow."

Several Knights from the back benches stand abruptly and slip through the chamber exits. The Grandmaster's spies no doubt, sent to keep an eye on Atris' movements. I'm sure they will have choice words in their report. Slowly, the rest of the general assembly obeys and begins to disperse in murmuring groups. Word of this tribunal will spread like wildfire I am sure. Supporters of the Exemplar Host will not be pleased with Atris.

One by one, the Special Committee stand as well and shuffle away. Kho Zhorast glances at us with his expressionless mask. He gives a nod then departs. Navadaran and Fadix exchange hard looks before leaving on opposite exits.

Only Belapheron does not retreat. The Primus steps off the podium and approaches us with a generous vigour, with a soldier's swagger. The Master's well trimmed hair is greying, but the vitality of his soul is palpable. Even swathed in voluminous robes I can make out his impressive musculature. Every movement radiates enormity - of body, of mind, of spirit. So when Belapheron of Theol stops to tower before us, I am more than a little intimidated. His left eyebrow is arched in wry amusement.

"Your reputation is not exaggerated," the Primus remarks to Revan. "I have never seen Atris so wroth."

"As you say, Master."

"Still," Belapheron continues. "I hope your tongue will exercise restraint in the future. It would not do to have council meetings end in such disarray."

Revan says nothing, simply studying the Master through heavy lidded eyes. His stance is tense, sword hand ready to draw at a second's moment. That confuses me. As far as I know, the Primus has never crossed Revan's path or done anything to provoke such hostility. If the Master is insulted he does not show it. He cups a massive hand on Revan's chin and turns his face.

"I see my pupil has introduced you to his craft," Belapheron remarks.

"He is a credit to your tutelage."

"Perhaps we may spar in future. It would be my pleasure to help you overcome your flaws. As a courtesy of course."

"Perhaps," Revan demurs. "But I have heard tales of your exacting regime. In all likelihood I would expire, like most of the apprentices that come under your tutelage. I regret not everyone can live up to your exacting standards."

Belapheron eyes become cold. I can see the hint of a frown peeking beneath his salty mane of a beard. But then he laughs the insult off and grips us by the shoulders.

"You remind me so much of myself at your age. Impetuous and self assured. Perhaps deservedly so." Belapheron remarks. "I have no doubt you will rise high within our fraternity, but let me give you a bit of advice." The Master leans close, a smile breaking out from his lips.

"Disrespect a Master like that again and I will break your legs."

The threat is delivered as casually as one remarking about the weather. I can feel the terrible power of his hand resting on the nape of my neck. One flick of those massive fingers could snap our collarbones.

Revan looks at Belapheron. His gaze never wavers.

"I will hold you to that, Master Belapheron," says my brother with equal calmness. "I would be disappointed if Oriax's Master turned out to be a toothless cur."

Belapheron is taken aback. His smile remains but I can see the slightest flare of his nostrils. Perhaps the Master thought his reputation would cow my brother. Perhaps he thought his presence alone would make him fall in line. Apparently, there is enough ignorance to go around today.

Belapheron might have said more, but a voice breaks the spell.

"Primus."

I turn and see Master Vandar shuffling towards us, hands clasped behind his stooped back. Belapheron spares the briefest glance at his peer.

"A moment, Vandar. I am educating these whelps on courtesy."

Vandar inclines his head politely.

"Of course. Forgive the interruption, but I require a word with my former pupil. I'm afraid it cannot wait."

Belapheron remains silent. He lets his stare linger on Revan, frozen smile as brittle as cracked glass. He takes a step away.

"Very well Vandar. I will leave the lesson for another time." Then he is off, the Primus' white robes billowing with each step. Master Vandar watches him leave, shoulders sagging. His worry lines have never looked so deep.

"That was unkind, goading the Exemplar Host like that." Vandar murmurs when we are alone. "Now that Atris has been humiliated, the other enclaves will think twice before supporting Throneworld decisions."

"I regret the outcome, Master."

"No you don't."

"You're right, I don't." Revan kneels, offering obeisance. "But I will take whatever penance you deem necessary."

"It had to be done," Vandar says. He places a callused hand on my brother's shoulder. "The feud between Atris and the Grandmaster has created nothing but scorched earth. Someone needed to bleed out the bad blood. And a lesson in humility might serve Atris well."

"I doubt she has taken the lesson to heart."

"No, Atris never learns," Vandar admits. "Otherwise you wouldn't have been sent to clean her mess."

He shakes his head, dismissing the whole sorry episode. "But that is not why I'm here. Word has come from the Lower Spires. The tallies of the lost have been catalogued in the Grand Archive. All that remains is for you to carve their fates into the Obsidian Tablets."

Vandar's news vexes me. The Obsidian Tablets are throwback ritual that I prefer not to conduct. Simply put, they are a record of grudges. The number of Jedi who betrayed the Order are uncountable. But those with sufficient infamy will have their misdeeds etched onto the onyx slabs we call the Obsidian Tablets.

In rare cases, heretics can been killed or brought to justice by avenging Knights. When that happens, the traitor's final fate is noted while their name is crossed off the stone. In this way, the Order reclaims a measure of honour from those who besmirched it.

"Get those paper pushers to do it themselves," I growl. "They know everything we do."

It is a churlish remark and I immediately regret saying it. But the recent humiliation has made my humours dark.

"It is tradition for Knights who delivered justice to perform the ritual," Vandar says patiently. "Who better to explain how the heretics sinned?"

That is true enough. But at this moment, the last thing I want to do is relive Corvaine's campaign. Atris has poisoned that well of glory. Unfortunately, Revan is more fastidious in his duties.

"Very well, Master Vandar," he says, bowing low. "My brother and I will make our way down to the Halls of Shame."

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _And with that, we gain our first glimpse at one of the more infamous characters from KOTOR II._ _Sorry for the wait. This chapter is big enough for two but I didn't want to divide it because it would break the flow._

 _Once again, thanks to all my readers. Please keep the feedback coming and spread the word if you like the story so far._

 _Responses to reviews:_

 ** _LeonCaboose_** _chapter 14 . Jul 10_

 _Thanks! Hope this chapter was worth the wait!_

 ** _RevJohn1171_** _chapter 14 . Jul 14_

 _Thanks! I'm glad you liked Oriax's introduction. Hopefully found the new characters interesting._

 ** _r4PT0rian_** _chapter 21 . Jul 22_

 _Thanks for the feedback! Hope you liked the glimpse into Atris' machinations!_


	23. Chapter 16 - Woman Behind the Curtain

_**Chapter 16**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _7 days, 21 hours, 38 minutes, 29 seconds before the Triumph_

For the unscrupulous infesting our galaxy, Tatooine holds special preeminence. On that desert waste, degenerates are free to ply their decadent trades, to mingle with other dregs of society and boast of their most memorable offences.

Were their crimes notable, I wonder? Did those debauched souls manage to ruin cultures? Enslave civilizations or commit genocides spanning entire galactic sectors? Because if such things remain unaccomplished, then the denizens of Tatooine do not deserve their warped pride. Neither do the majority our fallen brothers and sisters, who murdered and pillaged for petty gains. No, to be in the Halls of Shame, your vileness must be unmatched. Only when the scale of atrocity is apocalyptic will your names be considered.

There are forbidden places on our temple, pits of corruption where even the most exalted refuse to tread. The Halls most certainly qualify for it is a realm of anathema, a foundation of madness nestled within the darkest recesses of our domain. To protect the Throneworld, we deny its existence. We hide it below our gaoler cells, beneath our reactor furnaces and bilge crypts that rest our honoured dead. The exact location will never be disclosed for the sins of our ancestor are not for outsiders to know.

What I can say is that my brother and I travel far to reach it. Walking long, winding staircases and delving through sighing corridors that lead down deeper, always deeper. The only witnesses to our trek are dusty ritual droids, scrabbling in the dark, tracing rote paths through the mazes and mumbling forgotten words of purification.

We come upon the Ashen Gate, marked with the Order's own graven emblem over the lintel. The emblem is inverted, its downward thrust a representation of how the occupants strayed from the Jedi path. Stranger symbols are carved into the Gate's sides, runes of warding that glow with tendrils of smoke.

The first of the Sanctic Guardians stands under the closed arch, blocking our entrance. He is unhooded, revealing a hoary coat of grey fur. Patches of it have been burnt off, no doubt from vicious campaigns and the remaining are tough as quills.

Revan stops five paces away from the Gate Master. He gives a respectful bow.

"Fellfang."

"Brothers," replies the Cathar. His voice is deep, erupting from a barrel chest like the hollow of a tree trunk. Despite Fellfang's weathered features, his molten eyes are sharper than a surgeon's scalpel. This one still has some killing edge left, I think. "Come no further. There is no salvation beyond the threshold."

"We must, for we bring redemption to those thought lost," I reply. The words are ritual, a passphrase greeting before admittance. Fellfang turns to me, the weight of his stare chilling blood and marrow.

"Who have you come to redeem in our Order's sights?"

"Alivia Nox, Santagar Nox," Revan declares. "And all those they led astray."

Fellfang extends a crabbed hand and places it against the gate. He shuts his eyes, ruminating, muttering words in a tongue that seems wholly alien. I glance around warily. There are threads of Force unravelling around us, its patterns unfamiliar. The scent of blood stirs, bubbling like hot oil while Fellfang communes with unseen presences. His other dread guard?

For a moment, there is only silence. Then I hear the distant clicks of age old mechanisms slotting, reassembling beneath layers of psychoactive stone. A moment later, the runes on the Ashen Gate flare brightly then gutter out. Corroding iron bars and hinges creak open. Fellfang steps aside, head bowed.

"You may pass," he announces. "Let your words bring absolution to the fallen."

We pass the threshold and are buffeted with a curtain of deep-red miasma roll. Even on the precipice to the Halls, the foulness is stifling. I glance back at the arch, noting that the wards are already glowing back to life. Interesting. What archaic protections are woven into these foundations, that keeps such rot at bay? Nothing known today I wager for so much of the Order's knowledge is lost. Fellfang's voice rumbles one last time as we leave.

"Guard your soul, for the soul is the gate."

His words are not idle warnings. I can feel...heat here, a cloying humidity in the stones that should be cold and cracked with age. Around us are walls of pocked holes, the unceremonious resting places for our dishonoured. Many of the skeletons are rancid, stinking of charred ash and spoiled meat. The fallen do not receive funeral rites, and many corpses are foetid swamps upon arrival.

We tread deeper through the crypt, breathing mists and mellow toxins. The floor is an ankle-deep soup of condensation. Candles flicker in their holders, struggling to stay alight against the damp mold. Support beams are rotten and pocked with a sieve of beetle holes, and it all smells deeply of another world. This rate of decay is unnatural. It is as if putrescence was mixed into the very mortar itself. Now it leaks from cracked stone, wriggles out between slimy moss.

I can feel the faint presence of minds pressing against mine now, as alien as any minds I had ever sensed. They are bitter, those minds, like long-deposed kings bereft of their armies, watching intruders rampage across a plane they had once plundered with impunity. I sense mordant anger, but also empty impotence. They are ghosts, mere afterglows of the real vile warriors, lingering like curls of smoke over embers.

My heart is beating fast. I had been told, a long time ago, that all Knights feared this place. Everything _living_ feared it for despite our wards and rituals, the Halls of Shame are steeped with corruption. In life, many traitors indulged in violence and poisoned their blood with unbridled rage. Such extreme emotions leave an echo, a taint that lingers within their decrepit remains. The Dark Side, the fell powers of the Force...It does not matter what we call it. Once its pernicious talons embeds itself into your skin, the taint is almost impossible to shake off. And we are like moths to the candle here, burning ourselves, risking our souls as we delved deeper into the Hall's fetid chasms.

"You look ill at ease, brother," Revan remarks at length. That is an understatement. My eyes water with each step and I fight the urge to gag.

"It is nothing," I reply gruffly. "I simply wish to be away from this place."

"Do Atris' words gnaw at you?"

The question is not unexpected. I have been surly ever since the trial. "No," I growl. "Do not pursue this."

My brother does not look convinced. "Why do you care what others think, Exon? You know who are."

Annoyance flares in my chest. "That is easy for you to say," I retort. "Not all of us are as dead inside as you."

The moment the words leave my lips, I realise how petty it sounds. I stop walking and turn to face him.

"That was unworthy, brother," I mumble. "My anger is misplaced, exacerbated by the ruinous powers around us. Forgive me."

Revan shrugs. "You have seen me at my nadir, brother. I can forget one outburst."

That makes me chuckle. "But you are correct, Revan. Her insults gnaw at my bones. And it is not just her but, the whole Committee's mockery."

I look down at my hands, clenching them, imagining it was Atris' head I was crushing.

"I had hoped for some gratitude from the Masters, a little taste of the glory," I whisper. "Is that so much to ask?"

Revan doesn't reply immediately. He stares at a crevice which contains nothing more than a pile of finger bones. Traitors meet very violent ends and some could not be captured whole.

"This approval you pine for," he says slowly. "Why do you want it? "

I hesitate. "Everyone wants respect, do they not?"

"But do _you_ respect them?" Revan presses. "Those Masters on the Committee?"

"Do you?"

My brother folds his arms into his robes, thoughtful. "For me, it is not a question of respect but a dissemination of their qualities," Revan says eventually. "I seek to determine the most productive way of co-existing."

He casts me a sideways glance. "He let me break Atris, you know that right?"

The remark catches me off guard. "What?"

"Belapheron," Revan clarifies. "As _Primus Inter Pares_ he could have halted my diatribe against Atris at any time, but he didn't. While Atris was burning bridges, _he_ alone was fostering goodwill with the other enclave Masters. Why is that, do you think?"

The question sounds absurd. "Someone has to be the voice of reason."

"True," Revan admits. "And yet, Atris cannot possibly replace the Grandmaster. No one, not even her most fervent supporters would countenance this. But Belapheron..."

He trails off and it takes me a moment to piece together his insinuations. "Are you saying... _he_ wants to usurp the Grandmaster?" I ask incredulously.

"They _all_ want to usurp her," Revan explains calmly. "Some more than others perhaps, but in the end, it's all one big game to them. A game where they jostle, scheme and position themselves for the grand prize."

I rub my eyes. By the Force I was tired and the encroaching darkness has nothing to do with it. "All this politicking, all this intrigue," I say wearily. "And for what? A chance to snatch at glory, only for it to slip from their cold dead fingers?"

My brother places a consoling hand on my shoulder. "When you have an institution as large and byzantine as ours, you will see the necessity of it," Revan remarks. "Politics is merely the evolution of social hierarchy, the need to establish dominance over your flock. It is wielded by the lowest tribal leader to the most exalted Senator."

He resumes his slow trek and I follow a pace behind. Beyond all sense, plant growth is spewing between the cracked stonework, sustained not by sunlight but by the violent overspill of Force. I see mutated fauna burst and divide in those cataracts, breeding voraciously in the humid depths before flowering in new and esoteric forms. Bloated vines wriggle like worms at my feet, unfurling to reveal mouths with thorns. More than once we need to stop and chop off grasping tendrils that hinder our path.

After a few minutes of navigating this treachery, he continues. "You asked me whether I respect the Masters. After due consideration, I can say that I do, for they are all quite superlative in their own way."

The memory of Veomir spilling his guts floats into my head. "Come now," I scoff.

"You doubt this?" counters Revan. "You wish to believe that the masters of the Order are men and women of grasping inadequacy, forever squabbling over their own ambitions? I will not pretend they do not have their faults, and the turnover of enclave Masters from death and rivalry is frightening. Some of our elders are vicious, many of them narcissists. Kho Zorath is positively psychotic, and I remain convinced that a slim majority are technically insane."

Revan raises a finger.

"But here's the thing - every one of them is a master or mistress of the most strenuous and acute capability, though they burn out quickly. The cares of the Republic are infinite and they themselves are most assuredly finite. I have been cruel to Atris I know. But for all her shortcomings, she possesses a zeal unrivalled by her contemporaries. A pity it could not be channelled in a productive way at the onset of her career."

He smiles without mirth. "Even Veomir, that walking testicle has redeeming qualities as a facilitator, someone who can cut through the hurdles that mires our bureaucracy. That is not something to be scorned."

I grumble underneath my breath. As much as it pains me to admit, his words are not hallow compliments. For all my mockery, all my criticisms, it is _those_ Masters alone who have guided our ravenously toxic Order through thousands of years of existence, within a universe that most assuredly desires to chew on our collective souls and spit the gristle out.

Many Knights might have wished, in their idle moments, that they too could have risen to their heights, and sat on marble thrones, ordering the galaxy as it ought to have been ordered. But they did not do it, and these ones did. They faced down the demands of the Senate, the belligerence of Sith, the condescension of separatists and the blades of assassins, all while holding their power intact. They orchestrated _every_ response to the Mandalorian incursions and patiently calibrated the Republic's defenses. No one else could have withstood insurrections and civil strife, zealotry and madness.

"I respect them, brother," I admit eventually. "But I do not want to emulate them."

Revan nods. "Then trust your instinct. Too often, people choose poor role models because they believe there is no alternative. But the paucity of good choices is no reason to choose foolishly. Care less what others think of you, brother. Let your actions speak for themselves."

I nod uncertainly. Revan smiles then and claps me on the shoulder. "Nevertheless, you have _my_ thanks, Exon. Does that not mean anything to you?"

As on Corvaine, I feel an absurd rush of relief. "It does, brother," I say gratefully. "It means more than you can ever know."

I have never been more sincere then at that moment. For all their accomplishments, the leaders of our Order are still flawed in that very human way. Ego and envy infest their hearts and they still grasp for a little more of the things all mortals have always desired – coin, power, knowledge, gratification. Perhaps without those qualities, they would not have risen to such lofty heights. But that says more about our deplorable infrastructure than it does about their personal merits.

This, I think, is what separates Revan from them, from _all_ of us. For a year, I have seen him operate and can say that he is not beholden to the capricious webs of rank and power. But my brother could see a man, or a woman, and knew what they desired. He knew what to say to them, and knew where to direct them. If they wished to do him harm, he found them prey more alluring. If they wished to help, he extracted a suitable price. Thus my brother weaves a path between the paths of others, evading death while it devoured his rivals. Compromise was his way. In a age of puritanical tyranny, he is despised, but that is as it should be.

Revan did not lie earlier. His goal is and has always been to pull the Order from the quagmire it finds itself in. My brother watches Masters come and go, made note of their intent and considered those who might be better suited to more exalted positions, and those who might be better extinguished. With Atris, it was most certainly the latter and so he tore her down.

There is a lesson there, I think. It doesn't matter what position in the Order you hold, how secure you feel within the Jedi's crumbling house of cards. If your goals run contrary to Revan's designs for our future, he will punish you. You cannot deny him. You cannot outrun him. And one day, my brother will make sure you get _exactly_ what you deserve. The Jedi is well served by such diligence, even if its members do not appreciate it.

So despite the despair, despite all the foulness dripping on my skin, my step is lighter than it has been in a long while. For the first time since the trial, I feel hope.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _7 days, 21 hours, 4 minutes, 24 seconds before the Triumph_

We reach the chamber allotted for traitors enshrined within the last century. Opening the gate, I can smell that the air is lighter here, its rot less oppressive. Most of the black stones even have script that is still legible. After fifty paces, we come upon two blank ones. They stare down over empty crevices, its virgin surface ready for words of infamy. Revan produces a laser cutter. He bends down and begins to mark the fates of Corvain's arch heretics. While he works, I glance around, reading the pronouncements of other notable traitors. The list is depressingly long, its contents unspeakably vile.

 _ **Khaven the Mad**_

 _Former Master of Gerione enclave._

 _Charged with multiple counts of dereliction of duty._

 _Falsified reports of missing Knights, bodies never recovered._

 _Discovered to have sold organs and personnel on black market in exchange for relics._

 _Eliminated five kill teams sent to retrieve him._

 _ **Confirmed victims**_ _: 6,790_

 _ **Unconfirmed**_ _: 568_

 _ **Status**_ _: At large._

 ** _Nayama_**

 _Trained without permission by Jedi apprentice Jolee Bindo._

 _Investigations indicate wedding conducted to said apprentice._

 _Confirmed possession of heretical tombs._

 _Joined Exar Kun in rebellion against Order. Responsible for turning 56 Knights to his cause. Hundreds unconfirmed._

 _Convicted of civilian massacres on Lhaion, Hoxun and Galius III._

 _Eliminated three Jedi kill teams and twenty Army task force units._

 _Hijacked Capital Ship Virtuous Talon. Discovered adrift, all crew lost._

 _Assassinated Senator Viria - reasons unknown._

 _ **Confirmed victims**_ _: 14,823_

 _ **Unconfirmed**_ _: 662_

 _ **Status**_ _: Presumed killed during final battle on Yavin IV. Body not recovered_

 _ **Pelator the Leech**_

 _Practiced heretical techniques of syphoning life force._

 _Convicted of leeching three Knights and multiple criminals before escaping imprisonment._

 _Culled five colonies on Seravaio star system over ten years. Investigations indicate victims were distilled into rejuvenation tinctures._

 _Killed seventy nine Knights in task forces sent to eliminate him._

 _ **Confirmed victim count**_ _: 20,789_

 _ **Unconfirmed**_ _: 210,000+_

 _ **Status**_ _: deceased. Body retrieved._

The list of wayward souls is depressing. I would not blame outsiders for thinking our Order terribly inept. But in truth, many disasters are averted before they can gestate to full blown calamities. I have seen the assassination lists, the hundreds flagged by our rigorous screening process. Thousands of candidate are rejected annually, not due to lack of potential but psychological flags. We check and check, balancing spiritual fidelity against practical necessity.

But it only takes one, one overlooked cog to bring our delicate ecosystem crashing down. Such is the peril of having so much power flowing through so many fingertips.

"We will never cross them all off," I say sadly. "Many are forever beyond our reach."

"But not the Force." Revan completes his inscriptions and stands back up. He glances at the other records. "Their time will come, brother. The Force will not tolerate Oathbreakers."

His words do not reassure me. It is the kind of platitude I would expect to hear in a sermon or self improvement seminar. Vague reassurances without proof or substance.

"Do you really believe the Force remembers?" I ask with exasperation. "Our sister is steeped deep in the Well of Infinity, I know. She understands its currents better than I ever will. But how can the Force hold a grudge?"

Revan shakes his head. "That is too literal an interpretation, I think," he says. "All Jedi follow the Code and swear oaths to respect the boundaries of the Force. Many think these practice outdated - restrictive - but our ancestors implemented them for a reason. They knew the Force was not delineated by simple abstractions of Light or Dark but underpinned by deeper truths."

"What does that have to do with our traitorous brethren?" I ask.

"Oathbreakers _take_ , Exon," Revan says firmly. "By definition, they break our restrictions to pursue their own agendas. Therein lies the danger for their thoughts inevitably turn to the acquisition of power. And what font is more potent than the Force? So they draw more from it, delve deeper into proscribed knowledge, sacrificing more and more of their scruples for one more – just one _more_ word of power. And why not? They think themselves the master of the arts and so grasp with ever greedier fingers. But fate has a habit of punishing that level of hubris and they will make mistakes. It happened to Kun, it happened to the Nox family and it will happen to whatever fool that thinks themselves a prince among men. No one can truly master the Force for how do you master infinity?"

"It isn't possible," I declare.

"It isn't," Revan agrees. "So yes, I very much believe Noctua's warnings. One way or another, The Force will consume the Oathbreakers and their venal souls. It is a fool who thinks they are above our laws."

That is a balm at least. But before I can truly let the comfort sink in, a new voice disturbs our conversation.

"Ah, but who is the more foolish? The fool or the fools that follow him?"

I turn, startled. A figure swivels in the murk, its face partly hidden by a thick cowl. It is hard to focus on that face. How did this one get in here? The gate remains unopened, and I heard no footsteps.

Shadows and secrecy obscure this one's features, its intensity unnatural even in this weak light. Hair peeks out from the heavy cowl though, well salted and fashioned into sharp plaits. A woman then. I force my eyes to adjust, to pierce the veil of secrecy, and finally a face emerges.

My heart flutters. I recognise this one, although I have never had the privilege of speaking to the newcomer in person. She is an exalted Master and officially the first to hone Revan's craft although my brother himself has disputed this.

"Kreia," Revan growls. That name confuses me. The Master is known well among the Order, but I have never known her to be called that. An affectation perhaps? Something shared only between Master and apprentice?

My brother stares at her like a cornered animal. There is an unsettling revulsion emanating from him to the Master, one I sensed earlier with Belapheron. His hand twitches near his weapon and he crouches, ready to pounce. I cannot sense any overt malice from... 'Kreia', certainly nothing to warrant such caution. But if there is one lesson I have learned in all my time with Revan, it is that appearances are deceiving.

There are no introductions. My first inclination is to think I am unworthy and resentment twinges within. But then I look at the newcomer and realise she wouldn't _care_. I am irrelevant to her, less then an afterthought.

"Have you come to take your place among the dishonoured dead?" Revan asks. His voice is cold, spiteful even. "I would be more than willing to facilitate your well deserved demise."

The Master smiles. I can just make out the bloodless twitch of her lips. "My dear boy, so quick to find fault. So quick to condemn. Is it not natural for a Master to ask after her apprentice? It has been awhile after all."

As she speaks, I cannot help but notice Kreia's voice is paper dry, corroded by the elements like rusted metal. And yet her scent is cloying, similar the musk that hides the stench of sickness and death in a healing ward. Underneath that stench, I detect nothing but darkness. It is as if...a cloud has settled onto the Master, some Force overspill thicker than a cloud bloat flies.

"Another millennia would not have long enough," Revan replies, dismissive. "We have nothing to talk about."

"Oh come now, do not be coy. The games you play are well known to me." She takes a step forward, tracing her hand against the soiled stone. "Corvaine was a master stroke of cunning. And the way you dealt with Atris...aah, I savoured that anguish most of all. Like a needle jammed into a crevice she can't reach."

She pauses, inhaling the foul air like an aphrodisiac.

"You have sown seeds that will fester in her soul, digging ever deeper while she thrashes in impotent rage. It was deftly done. I will enjoy witnessing her insanity unfold."

Revan gives a brusque shake of his head. "As always, you misinterpret my intent. And why would you care about Corvaine? You were not there."

"Why, I take pride in your accolades the same way a mother takes pride in her child," Kreia answers coyly.

The affectionate tone makes my brother's nostrils flare. He sucks in a breath. "We are _nothing_ alike."

"Deny it all you want, but we are made from the same mold," she whispers. "Your greatness spawned under my watchful eye and so your accomplishments are in fact _my_ accomplishments."

My brother looks agitated. Each word cuts into him like an envenomed blade. She is an effective dissembler this one, something shared between Master and former apprentice. Like Revan, Kreia has a way of needling through your bravado, to cut where their opponent is weakest. Perhaps she is the only one to know what my brother's vulnerabilities are. That is a priceless weapon, one many of his rivals would covet.

"You stole me from another for your nefarious ends," Revan growls. "And when I could not stomach you any further, I left to study under Masters with more moral fibre. They deserve infinitely more credit."

Kreia laughs then. It is a horrendous sound which scrapes at nerves and soul. "Which paragons of virtue are these? Vandar? He is desperate thing, ridden by guilt, and suffocating under lies of his own devising. Zhar Lhestin? A snake if I ever saw one. Vrook, then. A blunt instrument, but one I enjoy leading on a leash. Predictability has its uses after all."

The Master counts more off her finger. "Who is left? Valerian? Shal Mon? Carnovar? The list is exhausting. But I know the names, every one and each gave you a pittance compared to me."

Her observation is not far off the mark. My brother is a melting pot of knowledge, each taken from Masters of different specialisms. Zhar's cunning, Vrook's stubborn endurance, Vandar's subtlety with the Force...I can see it all, reflected within Revan like light split through a prism. He took their greatest traits and made it his own. From Kreia, he has inherited the unknowable - the quality of secrecy and deception. More than anything, that trait allowed us to sink our claws into an unsuspecting Corvaine.

Revan smiles at his former Master but it is without humour. Almost like a cub bearing his teeth.

"Perhaps, but I would gladly take a blade for any of them. You...you I would stab in the back at the first opportunity."

The threat bounces off of Kreia like water. She has evidently done this dance many times with him. "That hostility again," she muses. "You were always so resistant to my guidance. I regret I was never able to remove that flaw."

She begins pacing around us, appraising Revan. My brother stands tense.

"But I must admit, mentoring you was my greatest achievement, the most fruitful of my career," Kreia goes on. "I miss the process, I truly do...which is why I have decided to take somebody else under my wing."

Revan glare shifts from Kreia to a point over her shoulder. It is only then that I notice someone is at the Masters side. _Always_ standing at her side. That is odd. Even in the gloom, I should have noticed.

The figure is nondescript, a hunched thing draped in heavy rough spun robes. A mottled grey shawl obscures the hooded face making it impossible to determine a gender. I see strange runes on that shawl, crawling script that hurts the eyes if focused upon. All this would have been disturbing enough, but the aura this...individual emits is truly repellent. It reeks of suffering, of gangrenous wounds and crusted pus. I have the distinct impression it is screaming behind the shawl, a silent howl that echoes not in the physical plane but within the well of infinity. And Force beyond, I swear there is _wriggling_ under the robes. Under layers of fraying thread, there are…things the size of eyeballs that twitch and flutter.

It is offensive, in every sense of the word - and its vile presence is not isolated to the physical. The lesser intelligences, those decayed spirits buzzing around us like charnel flies are recoiling. They are scrabbling away from Kreia's companion like drowning rats scurrying from a sinking ship. Who is this? _What_ is it?

Kreia notices our revulsion and chuckles. "Phaedra? No. My savant serves me in other capacities. I am looking for someone much more...impressionable." She comes to stand just at Revan's shoulder. It takes all his willpower not to recoil. "Someone you have been paying undue attention to."

Revan doesn't turn his head but his eyes do narrow. "You don't mean-"

"Bastila Shan," Kreia breathes into his ear. The Master says it like she is sampling a fine bouquet. Somehow, the name sounds tarnished – _poisoned_ when it passes through her chapped lips. "I know you have been making inquiries. You have been discrete as is our way, but this is the Throneworld." She walks past him with deliberate slowness. "Now, what reason do you have to ask after her, I wonder?"

My brother doesn't reply immediately. His mouth twitches and he flexes his fingers. "There are hundreds of worthy candidates," he says eventually. "Cast your eyes somewhere else."

"Perhaps," Kreia muses. "But _you_ took an interest, and that makes me curious. Is there something in her I have yet to discern? You were always the insightful one."

Revan exhales. It is the closest I have ever seen him come to frustration. "I have done you the courtesy of staying out of your affairs, Kreia," he says in a low voice. "Are you really willing to break this truce?"

"Put your mind at ease, young one." Amusement dances in Kreia's voice. No harm will come to her. "I simply want to _nurture_ , to tend the garden of her soul. It is such a damaged soul, don't you think? But if there is true potential within that broken husk, I will find it. Just as I did with you."

Revan marches past her and towards the exit. "I am leaving, Kreia," Revan whispers harshly. "I cannot be responsible for what happens if we remain in the same room."

At that, I see another another twitch of amusement under Kreia's hood. "Is that anger I sense in you? A slip of control?" She chuckles and the sound is like sandpaper chaffing against skin. "It comforts me to see there is a sliver of weakness still remaining. A reminder that deep inside you is the quivering lump of flesh I moulded in my image."

Her former apprentice ignores her. He opens the gate and gestures me to leave first. After a moment's hesitation, I do.

"Farewell, young one," I hear Kreia call out. "We must have these encounters more often. I have missed our debates."

The moment I step through, Revan slams the door shut with ringing finality. He keeps a hand on the wood, as if it could hold an irresistible terror at bay. His breath comes in ragged gasps.

"Brother?" I venture. His agitation worries me. I have never seen Revan so vexed, not even after our escape from the Star Forge.

Revan looks up suddenly. "Find Noctua," he says.

"What?"

 _"Find her,"_ Revan growls and he begins stalking towards the Ashen Gate. "Scour the Throneworld if you have to but find her. This cannot wait."

"You know that isn't possible." I say, uneasy. "Her brood rarely steps away from their sanctum." Revan does not accept that. He continues walking with long sweeping strides and I struggle to keep pace. "What is going on here, brother? Why involve her?"

"I need to see someone," he says without breaking stride. "Only she can arrange it."

I place a firm grip on Revan's shoulder and spin him around. He glares at me. "This is unlike you, brother," I say, worried. "I do not know what animosity you harbour for your former tutor, but do not let that ire cloud your judgement." Revan blinks. He takes a breath, and nods, slowly regaining his composure.

"That word...Kreia," I continue carefully. "Why did you call her that? You know that is not her name."

Revan is silent for a long time. His eyes dart back at the Gate as if willing it to stay shut. "In my studies on ancient civilizations, I came across Pidgin languages, " he says in a low voice. "These were primitive communication methods that evolved between the Sith, Killiks, Rakata after first contact. Even the Celestials had a hand in it during their enslaving period."

I scratch my beard, not quite grasping what he was telling me. "I fail to see what this has to do with her."

"It was...Kreia who showed me the Pidgin language," Revan admits. "After study, I discovered it contained grammatical precursors to linguistics among the wider galaxy. Several words are actually used today in bastardized form."

"These...languages has that much influence?" I ask surprised.

Revan nods. "'Malak' is a pidgin word that exists in several modern lexicons. And they all use it with roughly the same meaning - champion. 'Kreia' is another that has carried through, but it has a different meaning depending on where it is put in the sentence. A cipher word."

"Cipher?" I repeat perplexed. He nods.

"In the old tongue, ' _Kreia Avarthra Treia_ ' was a phrase that roughly translates to ' _The woman behind the curtain_ ' a defamation commonly associated with a manipulator or deceiver of people. I called her that once it to describe her personality. She took it as a badge of honour. But 'Kreia', the singular form suits her equally well."

"What does it actually _mean_?" I ask.

Revan frowns and resumes stalking down the tunnel. He utters a single word.

"Liar."

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _7 days, 20 hours, 16 minutes, 49 seconds before the Triumph_

Noctua's presence eludes us. The might of her soul should make her easy to sense, but concealment is trivial for a Keeper. There is another presence though, one whose potency rivals her and whose scent is traced to the Grand Library.

Upon entering, I am greeted with well trodden rhythms – the shuffle of robes, the tick of iron-tipped fingers and the echoing thud of volumes being replaced on the shelves. There are many bookcases, creaking under the accumulated wisdom of noted historians. Digital copies are available of course but the written word is a practice still revered among scholars. There are tombs are so ancient they predate the founding of the temple. These are surrounded by glittering stasis fields, preserving its mouldering contents to a glacial degradation. Others are copies of copies, its lore translated and reinterpreted so often I doubt anything of the original intent remains.

We enter a private reading wing. The decor here is a study in good taste. A sandstone fireplace anoints the centre, imbuing the walls with a pleasant hue. Its carpet is from Correlia, the red threads softer than a baby's touch. Even the mundane items - the chairs and embroidered curtains are of the most exquisite quality, crafted, gilded and finished with an artisan's touch.

Our sister is seated on a velvet cushion that hovers in mid air. Dozens of tombs float lazily around her, lesser planets making slow orbit around their sun. The air feels heavy in here, like the displacement of pressure before a hurricane. Her effortless mastery of the telekine arts is impressive.

Amarinthe glances up as we approach.

"My valiant brothers," she declares. There is only the slightest trace of sarcasm in her remark. From a Keeper, from _her_ , that is high praise indeed.

She cranes her neck over our shoulder. "I do not hear incessant giggling or the patter of little feet. Where is the Golden One?"

"Doing what she does best, I assume," Revan says. "Concocting mischief."

"Ah, a pity. I always enjoy her antics." Amarinthe flashes Revan a shrewd look. "Word has spread of the thrashing you delivered. It is said Atris' fury shattered the _Lex Camera_ itself." She chuckles and swirls her wine flute. "The verbal excoriation you delivered must have been a sight to behold. Tell me brother, why did you do it?"

"You know why."

"I suppose I do." Amarinthe tosses back her unruly hair, sipping her drink. "Still I would have liked to see Atris play her hand, if only to see how badly she made a mess of things."

"We have enough intrigue in our ranks," Revan says quietly. "The Grandmaster does not need this distraction." He moves to pluck one of Amarinthe's floating tomb.

" _Mandalorians - Lamentations of War._ A hefty read."

"That fails to describe it."

"Reacquainting with your heritage?"

Amarinthe leans back and stifles a yawn. "Not by choice, I assure you. Noctua insisted."

"Interesting, I hope." I remark.

"Oh riveting. Glorious," she drawls. Even without the dripping sarcasm, Amarinthe's deadpan expression would convey her disdain. The tomb entitled _The Species_ hovers closest and she flips a page with a thought. "Did you know that the Taung originated from the Throneworld? And that they coexisted with our own genetic forbearers, the Zhell?"

"Truly?" I ask. I have never been a scholar and my ignorance to the Throneworld's history is some cause for regret.

She nods. "They evolved here, vying for control. For hundreds of years, wars were fought without a victor. But chance intervened when a volcano erupted. It was a calamity that managed to decimate the Zhell tribes and the survivors were subjugated."

Amarinthe's expression sours. "Well, the Taung were a superstitious lot and took this turn of events as a sign of their destiny to supremacy. Seeing the volcano's smoke and ash, they took the name _Da Werda Verda_ \- The Warriors of Shadow and the undisputed rulers of the Throneworld. Imagine that."

"You do not sound impressed," I venture.

"I am not," she replies curtly. "Even with fate on their side, the Taung were eventually driven off, by their _captives_ no less. And thereafter, they stalked the stars, scavenging like beggars, squabbling amongst each other all the while."

She lets out a breath.

"Their story should have ended there. But one Taung managed the impossible, uniting the rabble into something resembling unity and settled them on a new world. Mandalore. The first of his name and the race's namesake ever since. A pity."

Her words do not ring with pride. In fact, it sounds as if she is actively chastising her Mandalorian precursors.

"Some would call those things accomplishments," I opine. "You can take pride in the fact your people survived their exile."

"My people?" Amarinthe shakes her head, irritated. "The Taung are not _my_ people. Don't you see? The Zhell are our ancestors, _our_ genetic forbearers who cast the Taung away. They hurled them into the void, hoping these vermin would wither and die. But thousands of years later, hordes of humanity rush to take on the Taung's dying mantle like a badge of honour."

She smiles bitterly. "It is a cruel joke I feel. One that has come full circle although I doubt the Zhell would approve of the irony. I certainly don't."

"Noctua cherishes their memory," I point out.

Amarinthe frowns. "She shouldn't. Knights are meant to severe their past, not nurture them. For a Keeper, it is doubly so. Her dependence on our origins is a weakness we cannot afford."

She sets her books down. "My sister is under the delusion that the Jedi and Mandalorians will know peace someday, but I know better. Their newest leader fans the fires of hatred, poisoning the younger generations against Jedi, against _us_. We have all seen the patterns, and soon it will all end in blood. Noctua is deaf to my pleas though, and it is frustrating."

Revan and I share a look. "Nevertheless, you were of the clans," I venture. "It must be difficult...knowing you may come to blows in the future."

That seems to irritate the Keeper even more. Amarinthe floats gently back to ground and stands in front of me. "Look at me, Exon," she says tersely. "What do you see?"

I wince. It is hard to look upon her in the plane of the senses, just as it is hard to look upon all her shriven kind. Even at rest, Force current hums palpably around her, prickling the hairs on my skin. The casual might that bleeds from the Keepers is always unnerving me. Whatever rites of initiation they take, it has engorged them with powers no normal Jedi could hope to achieve.

Pained, I focus my sight on the mundane. Like the chamber, Amarinthe has taken great care with her appearance. She wears robes of silken white, with blue embroidery hand-stitched into the fabric. Chains of pearls and a cloak of platinum-thread compliment her rich attire, bringing to mind a rakish bard.

Her hair is artfully styled, with looping braids, pinned back with diamond studs but ending in frills like a peacock's tail. I hear it is the popular fashion in Coruscant nobility this season. And unlike Noctua, Amarinthe's former accent is nonexistent. Instead her voice is arch, flavoured with the mellifluous timbre common among the upper spires. Amarinthe's assimilation is absolute. Nobody outside our fraternity could guess she was plucked from the ranks of the Mandalorians.

"I see..." I say slowly. "I see someone who is ashamed of her past."

"Ashamed," Amarinthe echoes. She nods. "Yes that is apt. I carry no totems, no accent that could possibly link me back to any clan. Why? Because, my childhood with those nomads is not something I have fond memories of."

I open my mouth then hesitate, unsure whether to pursue this matter. Thankfully, Amarinthe turns away. She heads to the refreshment counter and begins mixing drinks.

"Centuries, even decades ago, Taung would have not suffered outsiders into their ranks," Amarinthe declares over her shoulder. "It was not until Mandalore the Indomitable that such customs were changed, and even then only for reasons of conquest."

She begins pouring her concoction into empty flutes. "Indomitable...such a pretentious name. But then, all those warlords chose such grandiose titles. Only fate taught the Indomitable the folly of self aggrandizement."

Amarinthe walks back and holds out the tall thin glasses. Revan takes one but I demure.

"Thank you, but-,"

She shoves the drink in my hand. "Drink, damn you," she grumbles. "You have put me in a melancholic mood. The least you can do is share my misery."

Revan sniffs his flute and tips it back. Without further recourse, I take a tepid sip and immediately cough, red faced. The wine is bitter, heavily spiced with lemon and more exotic herbs. Perhaps that is intentional but I was never interested in viticulture. Amarinthe chuckles. She sinks into the nearest gilded chair and takes a sip of her drink, thoughtful.

"You want to know why I hold 'my people' in such low esteem. Well, here is the meat of it." The Keeper waves us to the other chairs. We sit obediently.

"My parents were asteroid miners," she begins. "Two of the countless refugees made by Kun's war. They knew nothing of the clans until one swooped in and took them to bolster their ravaged ranks. I was conceived shortly after, not out of mutual affection but at the tip of a _beskad_ blade. Literally."

As Amarinthe talks, a wistful quality enters her voice. She stares straight at the fires and dark shadows dance ominously under her her eyes.

"It was not a pleasant childhood. I was bullied, taunted as inferior by our 'saviors'. For even years after the Indomitable's reforms, many Taung were resistant to integration, distrustful to any not born of the Old Blood. Nevertheless, on my fifth name day, the clan leaders held a ceremony to induct clan children into their fold. Like the first _Werda Verda,_ theelder smeared us with tar mixed with the ash. A symbol of rebirth, he told us. One which would ward the wearer from evil spirits and from the blades of our enemies. Next, hags brewed some concoction and bade us drink. They claimed it was a poultice, one that would render us immune to ill fortune and disease. I took one sip and pronounced that it tasted like old dish rags dipped in excrement. Then I vomited it all back onto their shrivelled faces."

That earns a chuckle from me and a smile from Revan.

"Nevertheless, we were finally initiated and I remember what my mother said when all the rituals were done," Amarinthe continues. "We were the first. The first generation born not of the Old Blood but of the new and the salvation of the Mandalorians. Even now, I do not know if her words were sincere or the ramblings of a starving, half mad woman. But I remember believing them at first. Every word they said I treated as gospel."

The Keeper laughs then, a bitter and cynical sound dredged from the pits of her sunken soul.

"Well it didn't take long for _that_ fantasy to die. Our clan was always small and on the move lest larger predators swoop in for the kill. Raiders, rival clans, disease...it all dwindled our numbers. Every year, my ashen kin died from cuts that festered and more to waste away from dysentery. Clean water was so scarce, most nights we drank our own urine. And so we perished, one by one like grains of sand. My father died fighting pirates and those same scum took my mother and others for Force knows what purpose. Brood mares if they were lucky."

The casual way Amarinthe recounts these atrocities unnerves me. I wring my hands, uncertain of what to say. "I'm sorry," I mumble eventually, the kind of empty platitude scrounged from the bottom of the barrel.

"Why?" Amarinthe retorts. "It's not your fault my formative years were a living hell."

She downs her wine and stares at the empty glass, idly appraising her own reflection.

"I won't bore you with how the Order discovered me. But it was mere days, _days_ after salvation when I realized that the traditions and beliefs my clan espoused were utterly meaningless. My training showed me reality was underpinned with mysteries that the Mandalorian clans couldn't even _begin_ to grasp. It taught me all their superstitions, sacred passages and rituals were as useful as nursery rhymes compared to the Well of Infinity."

The Keeper seems weary of the recounting. She tosses her glass into the fireplace and crosses her legs.

"So there you have it brothers. History says the Mandalorians were truly mighty once, but I never experienced that glory. And what does it say about them, hmmm? About a culture who would fight amongst themselves without a tyrant to bash their heads together and point them to an enemy? How can I respect a race that is reduced to plugging their losses with the dregs of more prosperous civilizations, diluting their identity with each generation?"

Her caustic attitude disappoints me. Amarinthe has risen to such lofty heights that she has become desensitized to the value of others. It is a trap many of our upper echelons succumb to. "That is harsh, sister," I say sadly. "The Republic's strength derives from its myriad of cultures."

Amarinthe shrugs. "Perhaps. And perhaps the influx of other species will even make them more dangerous in the future. But can those clans really be called Mandalorians anymore, when the new infusions eclipse the old? I think not."

The Keeper coughs and rubs her temples, as if trying rouse herself from torpor.

"Bah, enough of this prattle. I'm sure you didn't come for a history lesson."

She leans back, steepling her fingers. "So tell me. What brings you two to me?"

Revan puts his own drink down. "A request. I wish an audience with your Master."

Amarinthe purses her lips. "Do you know how many audiences she grants, brother?"

"None."

"None," Amarinthe agrees. "Ever since Second Vows, she rarely leaves the Impossible Citadel. You know this."

"I understand, sister. I would not ask if it were not of the utmost importance."

"What do you hope to accomplish with an audience?"

"It is a...political request. I apologize for the vagueness. This is the Throneworld."

Amarinthe studies Revan, tapping one painted fingernail on her armrest. "If it were up to me, brother I would ask her to come," she says slowly. "But the Keepers cannot be moved to intervene in your affairs. We are of the Order but not of your Republic. Our remit is to guard the nightmares spawned over the millennia, to prevent it flooding back into this realm."

"Then why did you help us on Corvaine?" I ask.

"Why indeed?" Amarinthe muses. "Perhaps our prognosticators foretold of greater calamity without our intervention. Regardless, I highly doubt your request qualifies."

"If she cannot come to me, then perhaps I can come to her," Revan suggests.

Amarinthe shakes her head. "No one outside our circle has ever entered the Impossible Citadel."

"Because it is forbidden?" I ask. "Or because no one has managed to?"

"Both."

Revan spreads his hands, a strangely vulnerable gesture. "I would try, nonetheless," he implores. "Please sister, ask."

Amarinthe frowns. Had it been anyone else, I doubt she would even indulge the request. Finally she gives a nod. Her eyes roll back into her head. For several minutes, our sister is inert. Her return to reality is accompanied by a jerk of her shoulders and she takes several shuddering breathes.

"Sister?" I venture.

"She...she will allow you attempt it," Amarinthe says between gasps. There is incredulity in her voice. "I am to take you to the Nexus Gate tomorrow after first meditations. If you can reach the Citadel, you will have your audience."

Revan stands and bows. "Thank you."

He turns to leave but Amarinthe stops him with an outstretched hand.

"You are my brother, Revan, on and off the field," she declares. There is a surprising amount of sincerity in her voice. "You have my respect, so understand what I say next is not out of contempt but concern. Do not attempt this. The trek is not for the uninitiated. Even our circle treads lightly outside the Citadel's aegis."

"You concern is appreciated, sister," Revan says calmly. "I am not afraid."

Amarinthe's purple eyes lock onto his, an odd expression on her face. Was it pity I see then? Disdain? Or both?

"You will be," she promises quietly.

"You. Will. Be."

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _And we finally get to meet Kreia. Only took four stories =). Hopefully she is as mysterious and subtly threatening as in the game. Sorry about the delay, lots to do._

 _Once again, thanks to all my readers. Love to hear what you think about Kreia and Amarinthe. Any feedback would be great. Please link and spread the word to other readers if you like the story so far. Thanks!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **Just a Crazy-Man**_ _chapter 10 . Aug 14, 2018_

 _Thanks, glad you liked the showdown!_

 _ **RevJohn1171**_ _chapter 10 . Aug 16, 2018_

 _Right on point with the character profiles = ). Ava has definitely gone off the deep end hasn't she? Don't worry, I don't plan on short changing the Mandalorians._

 ** _r4PT0rian_** _chapter 10 . Aug 17, 2018_

 _Thanks for the feedback! I'll try to break up the repetition with new ideas. I don't want Revan to come across as socially indept. But the hostility Revan has for Belapheron and Kreia is well founded. He'll definitely get along with other characters moving forward._

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 15 . Aug 18, 2018_

 _Haha, I'm glad I managed to get a laugh. Not too many jokes in this chapter, I'll have to save that up!_

 _ **HemlockAndy**_ _chapter 15 . Sep 2, 2018_

 _Thanks, glad you like their relationship! They'll get into more shenanigans, don't worry =)._


	24. Chapter 17 - The Descent

_**Chapter 17**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _7 days, 9 hours, 35 minutes, 9 seconds before the Triumph_

"Pain?"

That is her first question. It is, I suppose, the only one that matters.

"That better be rhetorical, Celeste," I grumble. "There isn't a part of my body that _doesn't_ ache."

The Primus Medicae chuckles. Her fingers digs into my flesh with surgical precision, testing muscle quality like a chef appraising a choice cut of meat. I wince as Celeste grinds her elbow into a particular stubborn knot. Healing is - ironically - a very painful process.

"You're Deltoids and Trapezius muscles are too tight, Exon," she fusses. "Have you maintained your stretches?"

"Not as much as I should," I admit.

"Shame on you." There is a playfulness to her voice that takes the sting away. I am at peace in Celeste's little oasis, more so than in the temple's meditation chambers. And I must admit, she has has done impressive renovations to the healing ward. Clavichords chime in the background, accompanied by pleasant flutes that hide incessant hallway chatter. Holo imagers are cunningly wrought around the chamber, shifting reality to resemble the landscapes of paradise worlds. At the moment, we are treated to the emerald seas of Manaan. Somehow, I can smell the salt in the air, the spray of water on my face and the chirping of avians native to that planet.

A disk shaped drone hovers over me. It scans my body, projecting figures and images for Celeste's consultation. "Bones have set nicely," she notes. "Lingering soreness?"

"Nothing I cannot handle."

"How is your appetite? Your mood?"

"Fine, fine, Celeste." Exasperation creeps in my voice. "Everything's fine."

Celeste sets her tools down. She dismisses the drone and takes a seat so we are eye to eye. "Exon, I have been Primus Medicae for years now," she murmurs. "I can tell when one of my patients is withholding information."

I grunt, the sound of an annoyed beast. It is in my nature to resent intrusions but Celeste is patient. She reaches out and squeezes my callused palm.

"Is it the same dream again?

There is no judgement in her eyes. They are pretty eyes, calm blue lakes of wisdom. Dark hair falls gracefully between her shoulders with strands hiding part of her face like a pale curtain. I do not believe that is her natural colouring. Gradually my reluctance peels away. "I see her every night," I begin slowly. "Such a little thing. Like a youngling, but engorged with spite. There was... _corruption_ leaking through her skin and when she could not contain it any longer..." I can feel my voice trembling. "Force, that sound. Like the abyss snatching up a lost soul."

Celeste nods in sympathy. "Trauma is normal after such an engagement. It will take time."

We fall silent and bask in the sound of waves crashing against rocky shores. Slowly my hand raises to Celeste's face and I dare to lean in. The Primus Medicae gently but firmly pulls my hand down. I withdraw, crestfallen.

"No, not here," she whispers. "This is-."

"Yes, yes, the Throneworld," I lament. "I am sick unto death of hearing it."

"No, not just that. Atris has had Levius put spies into our very walls." She nudges her head to the southwest corner. I follow her eye line, to the stonework carved with garden imagery. A small lens is embedded within the floral patterns.

"Damn that bitch," I mutter.

"Her paranoia is rampant."

I bury my head into my hands. Frustration bubbles in my chest. "It has been...so long."

"Two hundred and sixty seven days." Something like disbelief must have appeared on my face because Celeste winks. "You're not the only one being tortured."

We laugh. Neither of us realized how much that catharsis was needed. "But now more than ever, we must be careful," Celeste says after composing herself.

"I thought we were."

"Not enough," she insists. "You saw what Revan just did. By the Throneworld, he _exterminated_ that poor enclave for this very behavior."

"On Council orders," I protest. "Personally, I doubt he cares what Knights do behind closed doors."

Celeste does not look convinced. "Do you think...do you think your brother knows?" she asks, her voice furtive.

"About us? Undoubtedly."

Celeste's distress is palpable. "Exon! How could-"

"I didn't tell him," I assure her quickly. "But there are few secrets barred from Revan. His powers of observation are frightening."

"You're exaggerating," she scoffs. "You must be."

I look at her, my face grave. "Revan sees to the heart of all things. He will peel away every layer of artifice and reveal the wretched core pulsing beneath. Even the truths you hid from yourself. One glance at a man or woman and my brother can tell you everything. _Everything_. Where they slept. What they had for dinner. Who they were intimate with."

Celeste shakes her head in denial. "I'm sorry, that is too far fetched."

"I'm _serious_. If there is a smell, a physical tic, you are caught. Alivia found that out the hard way."

I recall a similar conversation with Ciras during one of our joint campaigns. He was less skeptical than Celeste, although the sergeant could barely form a coherent sentence at the time.

 _"Wait *hic*," Ciras slurred. "Are-are you saying the Boss Man's so hardcore, he knows how many times I *hic* fuck a day? Just by looking at me?"_

 _"I...suppose that's what I'm saying."_

 _Ciras laughed, spilled his drink and almost fell off his stool. "Well bugger me with a red hot poker, that's just amazing!"_

 _He pawed at the passed out soldier next to him. "Ava, hey Ava! We gotta make up for lost time! I didn't get to go to the brothel today. The Boss Man will think I'm losing my libido!"_

 _"Go fuck yourself, Ciras," Ava muttered._

 _"What *hic* what do you think I've been doing for the last twenty minutes?"_

 _Ava raised her beer-soaked head from spindly elbows and glared. "What did I say about orgasms, Ciras?" she growled. "You *hic* don't get to have any unless I'm involved!"_

 _"But you just said-"_

 _"Fuck your logic!"_

 _Ava grabbed Ciras's collar and began fumbling with each other's clothing. They staggered three paces before crashing into their captain's table, half naked, passed out in a stinking heap of flesh and booze._

"Exon, are you listening? Why are you smiling like a loon?"

I shake myself out of the memory. Celeste is giving me a strange look.

"Sorry, what what that?"

"I said you should come to the group session this afternoon. Share your burdens, that will help on the path of healing."

"That may not be possible." I push myself off the sickbed and begin gathering my belongings. "I will be in the field today."

"So soon?" Celeste remarks, surprised. "Your brother is running you ragged."

"Perhaps," I allow. "But he does not ask anything he is not willing to do himself."

I think back to the encounter between Revan and his former Master, to the unsettling choices he has made since. On a whim, I ask. "Is Bastila Shan known to you?"

Celeste thinks and nods. "I did her psych evaluation two months ago. She was designated as one of the Notables, if memory serves."

"What was your assessment of her?"

"Patient confidentiality!" Celeste scolds, and swats my shoulder with her chart. I wince. "Though I can tell you what everybody in the Temple knows, I suppose. She is brash. Resistant to authority. And I believe there are underlying issues of parental abandonment."

"Interesting."

"Were you assigned a task with her?"

I shrug. "The name came up in a discussion recently." While I dress, I notice Celeste chewing her lower lip.

"Something else on your mind?"

"It's nothing." She sounds faintly embarrassed.

"Out with it."

By now, I am fully clothed and she beckons me to follow. We begin a slow march around the healing ward. From time to time, Celeste stops by a bed, performing her duties. Eventually she addresses me again.

"Since you brought him up, what is the Nameless One like?"

"Like?"

A nod. "With every improbable victory, Revan's legend grows. After Corvaine, his stock has rocketed to new heights. Knights coming to my ward call him _Invictus_. The Undefeated. The Insurmountable. Can you conceive it?"

I shrug, trying not to let my jealousy show. "The Order is ascendant again because of him. We are finally putting the shadow of Kun behind."

"Exactly!" Celeste sounds pleased by the prospect. "Not just in our own eyes, but with the rest of the Republic. And yet, so little is truly known about him."

"He prefers it that way."

"So tell me, what separates him from the rest of the flock? What makes him _Invictus_ , even among the exceptional?"

"I told you, his perceptiveness is unmatched."

"But is he a peerless warrior?" she presses eagerly. "Does he possess powers in the Force that eclipse us all?

"He is..." I pause. "He is the most adaptable."

Celeste isn't satisfied. "Surely there must be more to it than that?"

"That is the essence of it." I adjust my weapon belt and stretch the ache from my broad shoulders.

"When I first met Revan, he was a lone hunter. A very good one, but friendless. No one tread in his court so his effectiveness was stilted. After his exile though, he confided to me that this method was flawed."

"Flawed?"

I nod. "It took brutal defeats and another exiled Master to hammer the point home, but Revan realized battles are not won by individual feats of heroism but as a unit. Not only do you need allies, but it has to be right tool for the objective."

Celeste looks disappointed by my analysis. She stops to jot notes on a patient's chart. "So it is all a myth? Revan is no greater than you and I?"

I chuckle. She is missing the point. They all do. "Don't you see? Unlike us, my brother _learns_ from his mistakes."

The Primus Medicae gives a small harrumph. "So can I," she retorts while writing.

"Not like him," I declare. "The exceptional are so set in their ways, each an island of superiority. Warriors like the Sword Saint will cleave to their strengths but there are opponents you can't hack to death."

"You speak of Corvaine." There is a weariness to her tone. Undoubtedly, the story has grown stale with her, repeated day after day by Knights who wish to ape our success.

"Five Knights, Celeste. Five Knights and-"

"A demi company of the Army," she finishes with a sigh and sweeps to the next bed, forcing me to follow.

"No need to beat your own chest, Exon. Everyone knows you accomplished what countless Knights failed."

"And that is the trick of it," I remark. "The Council never changed their approach. They hurled thousands at Corvaine's orbital defences, butting futilely against an obstacle they could not surmount until their forces lay broken in defeat. They wouldn't or couldn't _adapt_ to accommodate the problem at hand."

Celeste nods, thoughtful as she checks the occupant's heart rate. "I suppose overwhelming power and speed is useless if it cannot be brought to bear."

"Exactly, _exactly_." I agree. "Revan approached the problem from different angles, experimenting with the alchemy of resources at his disposal. Not only did he get the Keepers to work with the Army, he deployed us in roles that maximized our strengths and discarded our weaknesses."

"You make him sound like an administrator," Celeste chuckles and moves to another bed to draw blood.

"A leader," I protest. "An efficient one. So few in the Order can actually accomplish synergy."

The Primus Medicae still looks unconvinced. "If you are left in doubt to Revan's brilliance," I add. "Remember, he defeated the arch heretic Santagar in single combat."

Her interest perks up while switching syringes. "By all accounts, a very accomplished swordsman," she remarks.

"Better than our brother I wager," I put in. "And yet, Santagar fell. Why? Because he was distracted, his attention torn between his adversary and worrying about his screaming wife. All planned, all engineered by Revan from the very moment he was given theatre control."

Celeste looks less skeptical now. "I'm beginning to see why he impresses you," she admits and I give an appreciative nod. The Primus Medicae completes her duties and stands. We begin moving towards the exit.

"It's all about perspective," I say along the way. "Individually, there are Knights more skilled with the blade. The Keepers know secrets that could extinguish his soul. Mysteel is faster and in a contest of strength I could crush him like a bug."

At the threshold, we halt our trek and I look Celeste straight in the eye. "But in battle, _any_ battle where victory is required, Revan will win. He will win because we may know one way of killing him, maybe even two, but Revan has _every_ _other_ _way_. It doesn't matter the enemy's composition or their advantages. My brother will nullify them and before they even know how to react, they will be dead. Adaptability."

Celeste smiles. "You're doing it again,"

"What?"

" _Idolizing_ him. Since joining Revan's company, you speak of little else besides your precious brother."

Her words take me aback. My cheeks redden. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, I'm just teasing," Celeste assures me. "I can see the changes he has wrought upon you, and I approve. He will bring that change to all of us I think."

"My brother is an unstoppable force," I agree. "Those who cleave to the old doctrines can resist all they want. But in the end they will bend or they will break, like twigs in the wind."

Celeste considers that. "By all appearances, you have gained his trust. Do you know what that means?"

"That I have a charming personality?"

"No!" she laughs. "One of the Order's brightest sons has chosen to groom you personally. The opportunity to rise high is within your grasp. All you have to do is shadow him."

Her words bring a surge of emotions, none of them simple. For as much as I admire my brother, he is also the cause for much jealousy.

Yes, I am jealous of Revan. I think at a certain level, it is impossible _not_ to harbour resentment for his incomparable talents. I have long resigned myself to the fact that I may rise with my brother, but I will never _surpass_ him. Meetra...Celeste, they all came to the same conclusion. Am I destined then to be overshadowed by my brother, forever hanging on his coattails to glory?

"It...it is a rare privilege," I manage.

"He will be at the Triumph I assume?" Celeste asks. "Go with him. There is no greater avenue to network with our elite."

"Believe me, I want to." I shake my head sadly. "But he has refused to go."

"Convince him," Celeste advises. "You have Revan's ear so make the most of it. Not everyone is so blessed." There is a slight hitch in Celeste's voice, a chink in her confident demeanour.

"What do you mean?" I ask curiously.

The Primus Medicae's shoulders sag. "He has not come to see me," she admits.

"I will remind him."

Celeste shakes her head. "No, you don't understand. He has _never_ come to see me. I am the head of the Temple's healing ward and have even extended several invitations for consultation. Yet he ignores them, going out of his way to speak with my subordinates."

She makes a frustrated sound. "I don't understand it. It's as if he took one look and decided to avoid me like the plague."

The admission unsettles me. My brother does not do things on a whim. I reach out and squeeze her shoulder.

"Do you want me to-"

Celeste shakes her head and forces a smile on her face. "It's nothing. You have enough to deal with at the moment. Go on now, you don't want to keep your brother waiting."

I nod my farewells and move to leave, but Celeste holds my hand firm. She glances around, carefully. When she is certain we are beyond any surveillance, the Primus Medicae leans in to press her lips against mine. My eyes widen. I can smell the faint scent of _Rosewood_ , the perfume I gifted her so long ago.

Celeste steps back too soon. "Next time," she promises with a wink and turns away. I head off with a foolish grin of my own. But as I depart, her remark about my brother poisons my thoughts.

 _He took one look and decided to avoid me like the plague._

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _7 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, 38 seconds before the Triumph_

Our airspeeder plunges down, weaving between colossal spire flanks, ducking under layers of overhanging skylanes. The pilot is Forty Seven, rigged into a frail chassis suited only for this menial task.

Forty Seven is an oddity. Its custom personality matrix is far more advanced than other manufactured templates and has demonstrated efficiency in every task assigned. This flexibility has seen it undergo many body swaps since Solace. Adapted, retrofitted and deployed as Revan sees fit. Yet, the machine's usefulness is only outstripped by its sinister tendencies, a legacy of its first Master and something that selective memory wipes cannot cure. Even now, it complains every step of the way, muttering death threats at my brother for slaving him to this indignity.

"[Foreshadowing] When I get free meatbag, I will repay every insult you have inflicted with fountains of blood. Your insides will stain every floor..."

Nevertheless, it skilfully guides the transport through priority conduits used by privileged Throneworld agencies, and soon we are rumbling across a series of vaned bridges that vault the gridlock below. Statues of ancient Jedi and Senators flank the thoroughfare, all of them caked in soot and with their faces cracked and obscured.

"This is unnecessary," Revan says to me eventually. My brother's dark eyes are shielded behind a heavy cowl. One hand rests below his chin as he stares into the city's impossible depths.

"Nonsense, brother. What are companions for if not to to help overcome hardships?"

"My business is a personal vendetta. I am not asking either of you to come."

We glance at the other occupant, golden and perfect. Force, Mysteel never fails to take the breathe away. 'Beautiful' is insufficient a word to describe her. Nor does it encapsulate that singular predatory grace upon the battlefield. I can only say that our sister possesses the qualities that celebrities and glamour models jealously cultivate but never achieve.

Freed from the obligation of subterfuge, she has garbed herself with emerald silk, tight fitting and a perfect compliment to her golden sheen. The afternoon sunlight reveal her sculpted features, displaying a pleasing near-symmetry no elective surgery could hope to match.

"Rev, I wouldn't pass this up," Mysteel giggles, showing off perfect white teeth. "I'm dying to do some real shopping."

"We are not-,"

"I know, I know," she laments, twirling her lightsaber. "But this is so much better than being cooped up in a meditation chamber, with nothing but phallic objects and my wild imagination."

The day is at its zenith, with transports roaring across the multilayered web of accessways and transit corridors. I see the cityscape of Coruscant run away before us, creaking and groaning under its tectonic layers. Some way above us is the dome of the Senate itself, perched like a gigantic mushroom. From there, the urban spire-mass stretched off in every direction, tangled and overbearing.

Cacophony assaults us, the heartbeat of a world that never rests. Augmitters blare out headlines from a hundred subsectors, while facsimiles of famous singers dominate fifty-metre-high holo screens. Every remaining scrap of exposed space is crammed with corporate vendors, whipping up customers into ever higher degrees of gluttonous mania. And amid the drifting clots of air traffic, chrome droids in chipped gold-and-red airspeeders prowl restlessly, sending sensor sweeps for suspicious movements.

"This is a rare privilege though." I glance at the tracking unit in my hand, the means Amarinthe provided to find their Citadel. "They say nobody, not even the Grandmaster knows the Keeper's exact location. And she is not allowed within their hallowed walls. Those who seek out their sanctum without permission are never heard from again."

Revan merely nods. Like all gargantuan organizations, our Order's hierarchy is impossibly complex. Ever since our inception, the Jedi has splintered, fractured and evolved new fraternities within fraternities, each with individual specialisms and idiosyncrasies. Outsiders can barely distinguish one kind of Knight to another, and that is how we prefer it, for it is always desirable to be underestimated.

The Keepers of Sanctity are our most obscure circle, the ones the Republic and Sith never see. Santagar and Alivia once bemoaned that the Jedi's accumulated lore has been allowed to wither, leaving only ignorance. Yet that knowledge is merely hidden, kept away by the Keepers so heretics like them cannot abuse it. The abhorrent things they guard...it is enough to drive even the most resolute insane. Which is why they rarely stir to fight our petty wars.

"Yet the timing _is_ inconvenient," I add. "Could this not have waited until the festivities are over?"

My brother gives a brusque shake of his head. "By the time that ends, it might already be too late," he says. "Kreia would not have bothered gloating if she had not secured certain promises."

"She is influential then."

"You have no idea."

"Why go through these lengths, brother? What is Bastila to you?"

"To me? Nothing," Revan replies. "But I made promises during my exile. As Noctua would say, Oaths must be honoured."

I hesitate, unsure whether to inquire further. Instead I gaze out and realize our transport has reached the strata levels dedicated to commercial trade. Kilometre long landing pads, weathered and rust-laced, jut out between the sweep of our cracked transitways. Sitting upon them are massive cargo haulers, the void leviathans laden with off world goods. Lattices of dockworkers scurry over these metal beasts, like insects fussing over a dead carcass. From time to time, long jets of brown steam hiss out of the ship's exhausts before dissipating into the choking atmosphere, like oil sinking to the sump.

A vessel blasted off from a landing site on Coruscant every millisecond, so they said. Another landed to take its place not long after. They arrived full, they left empty. The Throneworld didn't trade with the Republic in the conventional sense. It was more akin to a hopeless opiate addict, continuously enabled by vassal planets greedily sucking at its wealth. Luxuries are imported from every corner of every sector, dragged out from the holds of the leviathans that carried them. They are seized by the ravenous populace and devoured, but it was never enough for the Throneworld's nobility. An endless cycle of self imposed gluttony.

I watch this frenzy half heartedly. My mind is racing, struggling to formulate the best way of broaching the Triumph. It is hard to sway my brother, especially if his mind is set on a matter. And in truth, he likely knows all my points before I present them, such is his infuriating gift. But Revan never turns away good counsel. If my words have merit, he will heed them.

"You should start making preparations to leave yourself."

My brother turns to me. I cannot see it, but I _know_ Revan's brow is furrowed with irritation.

"This again? You heard what I told Ciras. I will not to be attending."

I laugh. "That is simply impossible. Other enclaves will bring their champions. And you are the Throneworld's brightest son. Your absence would be seen as a grave insult by your mentors."

My brother is unmoved. "There will be other Triumphs."

"Not like this," I argue. "Every rumour monger and news outlet speaks of the special unveiling on Promus this year. They say the Administration has commissioned life sized statues for every war veteran, all wrought from the Throneworld's rarest minerals." The thought brings a smile to my face. "Imagine it, brother. An _entire_ glittering army, one to to commemorate our victory over Kun. To be there, to witness this new wonder would be glorious."

"And the clothes!" Mysteel pipes in. "I heard some of the trendiest fashion designers will debut new clothing lines. Think what I can do with my wardrobe!"

"Then go."

"We cannot, brother," I say with some exasperation. "Mysteel and I are not one of the favoured. We would need an invitation...or travel with a companion who does."

"I have no invitation," Revan states flatly.

Mysteel jumps to my defence. "That's not true!" she protests. "My little helpers overheard Mr Floppy-"

" _Master_ Vandar," I cut in.

"Mr Floppy," she repeats stubbornly. "Offered Rev to be his personal guard during the event. V.I.P. access, baby!"

Revan glowers at her. "Which I have refused."

Mysteel's smile is one of triumph. "Oh, but under Article 17 of the Joint Security Act, a Master may summon their chamber militant on diplomatic events if he or she deigns it necessary to personal safety. He can order you to go, which means we get to go!"

We stare at her, stupefied. "How do you even know that?" I manage.

"Since I learned there's going to be all sorts of fun stuff at the Triumph!" Mysteel gushes. "Like a petting zoo, games..."

"Singers and dancers too," I add.

"Right! Not to mention _gigantic_ orchestral performances."

Our air speeder plunges through a huge ventilation shaft. We are reaching the lower levels now, towards the under city of the Throneworld's cavernous belly. Through these churning portals are ecosystems thick with boiling dust, punctured only by sulphurous lumen beams.

"The ship Ciras mentioned, it is rumoured to be the mightiest the Republic has ever conceived," I add during our descent. "A titan killer - one that can take on half the sector's fleet and win. To witness its maiden voyage would be magnificent."

Mysteel nods vigorously. "I heard some guests get to dine on the bridge. I bet the buffet will be huge!"

While we espouse the Triumph's virtues, Revan does nothing, having lapsed into a brooding silence. Our transport has crossed the final border, into the Under City proper. The last moats of mottled grey sky fall away to reveal a hive world dotted with sickly red pulses. This is the underbelly, the rotten core of a fruit that has been spoiling for millennia. The sinister aspect grows each year they say, nurtured by generations of pollution that belch down from the upper layers.

Our airspeeder passes spires of blackened soot, large jutting obscenities occasionally dotted with flickering neon signs. Smaller ramshackle structures are sprinkled in every crevice, infested with the vendors, hawkers and more illicit traders that flourish in seedy underbellies.

"It isn't just the navy," I urge. "The Army will show off new marks of weaponry during the honour parades. Battle tanks, flyers...entire new _mechanized super heavies_."

Revan isn't paying attention to me. His heavy lidded eyes are fixed on the eternal throngs, milling in amorphous gradations of mania. And I have to wonder what his unfathomable mind makes of the dilapidation.

A different kind of hysteria existed in the Under City, one born not of excess but survival. Nothing grows in these lightless caverns and food is always scarce. Millions of supply-lifters might touch down in a single hour, and still thousands demanded more. Any delay in the endless circular passage, and tens of thousands would die. The birthplace of humanity now squatted like some obscene, famished infant at the heart of its web of stellar kingdoms, ingesting the last dregs of stimulus out of the upper levels fringes and gulping them down into greedy oblivion.

If offworlders could see how rancid the Republic jewel truly was, many of them would reconsider their allegiances. The worst qualities of civilization are allowed to gestate in the Under City, shielded from prying eyes by the Throneworld's empty glamour. A theft occurs every ten seconds. Rape and murder every ten minutes and that is being conservative. When gang wars erupt, the roads become sticky with downtrodden corpses and meat wagons will spend months recycling its spoilage.

Our transport descends upon a landing zone between two mountainous spires. The doors growl open and Revan addresses Forty Seven.

"Guard this area. Remain until we return." The droid glowers back, silent.

We trundle out and my senses are assaulted with endless magnitude. Everywhere we look are tripartite tower complexes, ridged and buttressed with interleaving support structures. Their zeniths were far out of sight, its ascending sides studded with diminishing points of low-power lumens. These are great energy furnaces built atop the shells of older factories. Its complex systems of cabling, pipework and heat exchangers are patched and repaired but never fully replaced.

I practically have to shout to be heard here, just audible over the endless thunder of ranged engines, the rolling boom of engines, the heavy clang of droid-dragged supply-gurneys.

"This year, it isn't just the upper echelons of Republic Administration who will be attending. Dignitaries from the Inner, Mid and Outer Rim will be out in force. From worlds that rival Coruscant to the backwaters."

We merge through the masked processions wending their way across ambulatory streets and into a bustling transit zone. Soon we are surrounded by phalanxes of traffic – ore-haulers, tracked personnel crawlers, supply trucks, all shoving and belching into the transit lanes that webbed the chasms between towers.

"Hey Rev, didn't you mention meeting a diplomat from Chiron?" Mysteel asks. "Abby or something?"

"Ailene," I correct. "And she was only an Equerry until Revan's intervention. But who knows? If she is Chiron's official liaison now, chances are she'll be attending."

"Yeah...yeah, now I remember," Mysteel chuckles. "You were carrying her _clothes_ around when T'shere and I kidnapped you."

"What clothes?" I asked, perplexed. Revan's jaw tightens.

"Her uniform!" Mysteel exclaims. "Can you believe it? It was like Rev was keeping it to sniff for some weird sexual thrill!"

I shake my head in disbelief. "This can't be true."

"Every word," Mysteel promises and she throws Revan a wink. "Well, don't worry, Rev. I have a pair of panties ready whenever you want to get in your jollies. Just say the word."

The vein on my brother's temple throbs. Otherwise, he doesn't react while we laugh at his expense.

We finally come to a habitation zone. Most of the structures are ossified relics to be tended, not extended. Over the most recent centuries, in keeping with the long slide into global decrepitude, each building have begun to succumb into a swamp of corrosion. Their steep flanks are caked in dark green sewage while Coruscant's choking pollution slowly erodes the upper walls, imposing its own uniform mire of copper grey.

The Under City's inhabitants are ghoulish things. They trudge with the indifference of the oppressed and their skin are as pale as bleached bones, irregardless of their species. I see dark things - things I cannot describe as birds - pick at a day old corpse. Not far away, another man collapses, perhaps from exhaustion. Other pedestrians simply step over him, not so much as look up from their drudgery. A waif does stop, only to swipe what meagre valuables before flitting away into the mass of trudging flesh. I try to ignore the scene while talking.

"In all seriousness, brother, the Triumph is _our time_. Jedi Masters will be given seats of honour and our Knights will march at the front of the main parade column. Everyone will see us in our finest regalia, united under one banner and the Republic will remember who their protectors are. You can't tell me that isn't worth the trip."

"Really?" Mysteel asks curiously. "So I get to walk in a parade and show off my latest getups?"

"You can," I assure her. "Billions, no _trillions_ all across the galaxy will witness you and wonder how such beauty exists."

Our sister whistles, her eyes moistening at the prospect. "Ooh, now _that_ sounds like fun! So can we go Rev? Can we, can we, can we? Please? Pretty please?"

She continues like this. After two minutes of pestering, Revan finally loses patience. He halts abruptly, turns, and we almost crash into him.

"The Triumph is a distraction," he snaps and his vehemence makes us recoil. He points to the Under City's squalor. "Our infrastructure crumbles. Our defences remain inadequate while billions of credits are wasted for this pointless celebration. No."

Mysteel and I shuffle uncomfortably, chastened. "I don't understand, brother," I say cautiously. "The Triumph is a rare opportunity for our Order to celebrate. We have had so few reasons to until now. Why are you so resistant?"

"A man shits on the pavement," Revan growls. "Would you hold a celebration for him if he cleaned it up?"

"No..."

"And yet, that is what the Triumph represents. An empty fanfare glorifying our own incompetence."

"Yes, but-,"

I pause at the sound of armoured boots. A cadres of black armoured soldiers sweep out from the nearest street corner, dragging a half conscious Bothan. Underworld police. They are out in force, sweeping up miscreants, vigilant for the slightest whiff of agitation among the populace. In this way, they suppress the worst of the gang violence, at least that is the theory. Black-flanked hunter-killers hover over them, on gritty down draughts like metal vultures.

"But the Triumph is good for moral," I whisper as they move away. "It is a chance to regain some of our dignity."

Revan expression is unequivocal. "We will not rebuild our tarnished image through pointless extravagances." He points to a nearby hovel." You want the citizens' respect brother? _That_ is where to start."

I squint. A line of Under City civilians shuffle around the hovel, holding empty bowls. At the front of the queue is a fellow Knight. He is standing behind a counter and serves steaming broth. I do not recognize the face.

"Who is that?"

"Brother Ghanion," Revan declares. "He volunteers at this soup kitchen every other day after his patrol. Sister Hirthstaad helps in a nearby shelter providing spiritual healing. And Master Eorvul mediates labour disputes between the various trade guilds several blocks away."

"How do you know this?"

"I make a point of noting all Knights who perform our Order's most neglected duty," he replies. "Fostering ties with the community."

I give Revan a puzzled look. "I thought this was beyond our jurisdiction. They are in defiance of our conservative policy. No unnecessary fraternization."

"Who implemented that policy?"

"...Atris." The disdain in my voice says it all.

"Our defiant brothers and sisters pursue sensible policies that promote goodwill," Revan continues. "Now more than ever, the Order must show a commitment to rebuilding the Republic's infrastructure."

"I'm not saying these acts are without merit," I protest. "But these are local efforts the Republic will not see. We need a galactic platform to promote our image."

Revan glances at me sharply. "Do not confuse empty spectacle with integrity, brother. Nothing remarkable was ever accomplished without attention to detail. Our detractors bray day and night for our disillusionment. They see an outdated institution whose internal strife causes incalculable harm. And they are right, for idiots like Atris enforce aloofness and we do nothing to counter their accusations. The mistrust is so bad, many planets have revoked our right to intervene on their behalf diplomatically."

He turns to us, stern faced. "We must show Coruscant we can excel in peacetime activities. That means stable administration. The promotion of diplomacy and trade. In time, the Republic will return us to the more important tasks and on a larger scale. _That_ is how we regain our lost favour, not with this foolish Triumph."

"As you say, brother," I mutter half heartedly. For all the praise I give Revan's mental acumen, he can be dreadfully...dull. Leave administration to the bureaucrats and politicians, I can barely handle the Council's daily implosions. Spending each day listening to _more_ petty squabbles would be intolerable.

"It is a lesson we should all take to heart," Revan encourages. "Use your idle time for more philanthropic pursuits, not just...pointless frivolities." He aims this last remark directly at Mysteel.

"Hey, I'm philanthropic!" she protests. "Just a few months ago, I helped form the _'Women Are Awesome'_ Foundation. They help dispossessed widows, girl orphans and rescued sex slaves, that sort of thing. My little helpers and I go on donation drives twice a week!"

I stare at her in surprise. My brother scrutinizes her face for signs of deception. "That's...that's actually quite admirable," Revan admits when he finds none.

"Right? I wanted to call the charity _'Vaginas are Awesome'_ , but apparently that's a strip club on level 67."

"Why...why would you want to call it that?" I sputter. To my side, I can feel Revan's displeasure for encouraging this line of conversation.

"I like saying it." Mysteel answers happily. "And I found that if I say socially inappropriate things in public, people will pay me to go away!"

At the top of her voice, she shouts. "Speaking of which, do you guys like _**vaginas**_? Do you want to help give some _**vaginas**_ a good home?"

Her question freezes everyone within a hundred paces. Hunched pedestrians turn and stare. A gawking Delphidian crashes his hover board and smacks straight into a nearby pillar. Red faced, we haul Mysteel away from the scene of her crime.

"A hundred credits," Revan whispers harshly. "Just..just stop saying that word."

"Five hundred," Mysteel haggles.

"Two fifty."

"Five hundred."

"Mysteel, be reasonable-"

 **"Vagina!"**

More stares, more pointing. Her obscenities are drawing a crowd. I clamp a hand over her mouth before more damage is done. We practically carry her into the nearest alleyway.

"Five hundred," Revan snaps in disgust when we are alone. "Take it and be silent, Force damn you."

Mysteel proffers her prize, a triumphant smile on her lips. "Heehee. Flawless victory!"

"You there!" comes a shout. I turn. An Underworld police force has followed us. "Soliciting the services of a prostitute is strictly forbidden on this level."

Their leader gets a good look at us and shakes his head. "Jedi trying to hire a hooker? Shit's really gone downhill."

"Oh, don't worry, he's not paying me for sex," Mysteel announces. "He can get that for free!"

The officer scoffs. He's probably heard that one a thousand times. They approach, weapon raised. "You're going to have to come with me, all of you."

He reaches out for my brother's shoulder, but freezes when he sees the glare. "You saw nothing," Revan whispers. "You will report nothing. Leave."

"We-we saw nothing. We will report nothing," the man stutters. He turns back, eyes glazed. "All right, let's move out!"

"But sir-!"

"I said move!" Reluctantly his team march off. We watch them go. Mysteel is giggling as they disappear out of sight.

"Isn't this trip fun? We should go out more oft-"

Revan silences her with a look. "Not. Another. Word."

Mysteel zips her mouth with an exaggerated flourish. She's still smiling when we leave the alleyway though. Why wouldn't she? Our sister is five hundred credits richer.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _7 days, 1 hour, 51 minutes, 22 seconds before the Triumph_

We are in the deepest bowels of Coruscant. Now it feels as if the entire planet is rearing up over us. Sliding under us. Swelling and dragging our souls into its squalid and stifling embrace. Thousands of years of hege mony, of tithes dragged in from every planet in the Republic's vast realm, found its terminus here. The land itself is ruptured, bored deep down into the core with massive pipes, syphoning precious and strange materials from the Throneworld's crust.

I see no end to it. These pits went down forever, the searchlights swayed and the pyres smouldered, crumbling and decayed. Churning fumes rise up around us like steadily intensifying layers of gauze, masking the full extent of the structures within. The ground trembles, as if massive hammers rotated in the deeps below. Flames writhe out of exhaust pits like the geysers of volcanoes, raging for moments, or hours, or days, before suddenly gusting out again.

Down here, all pretence of civility is stripped away. Despite being inured to all the galaxy's horrors, I feel my soul recoil. Even Mysteel, ever cheerful has ceased her mischievous banter.

Gangs of prison workers drag up wagons of unrefined ore from these merciless depths. Spindly slave droids, march between the flesh, sending lashes of electrocution whips at anyone lagging behind. When struck, the victim screams and spasms like a malfunctioning droid. Some simply expire after repeated blows.

There are no revolts, no fights. The rebellious elements have been weeded out, crucified on iron slabs that form a crude fence around these hell pits. Many are still alive, but their pleas for death only fuel the downtrodden to work faster.

We stare at this from the relative safety of our cliff perch. My gorge rises and I spit the foulness out. "Force, who are these people?"

"Prisoners with maximum sentences," Revan replies. His voice is curiously calm, as if he expected this atrocity. "Political agitators. Those who need to disappear, all swept under the rug for the mining guilds."

"They could have used droids," I growl.

"This is cheaper, and it kills two birds with one stone. Republic officials do not question the guild's methods, as long as they meet their quotas."

Revan glances at Mysteel. She has become very quiet, her golden face pale with dismay. "Why are you so upset? You've seen enough worlds to know how these things work."

"I thought...I thought Coruscant was..."

"Better?"

Mysteel nods miserably.

"We should...we should tell the authorities," I advise.

"You mean the same authorities that sanctioned this?" Revan retorts. "Do you think the Temple or Upper Spires were built without tacit approval of these crimes? Where do you think the Administration got the resources to commission those statues you are so eager to see?"

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I have always known our pillars of society had blood in its foundations. But to witness it first hand is a truly depressing experience. I look away.

"This is unforgivable."

Revan shrugs. "We all benefited from these atrocities. We cannot feign outrage when the truth was always under our noses. And if anything holds one's silence, it is a mutual culpability."

He glances at me. "Still think that reforms are unnecessary?" We stare at each other grimly. As always, my gaze falters first.

"The coordinates Amarinthe provided are close. Let's not keep her waiting."

We cross through a long capillary tunnel. It winds through several smaller junctions, like a river breaking off into smaller streams. The mapping in this level is nonexistent and we have to backtrack several times when we encounter a dead end. It takes us fifteen minutes before finding a viable exit. Emerging at the other side however is our goal. My eyes widen.

"By the Saints..."

Swathed by the roil and the tumult, jutted a cluster of monolithic columns, blunt-edged and brutal in construction. The mighty walls of age-tarnished stone rise on – up and up, sweeping like the shoulders of geologically impossible mountains into the spore-filthed sky, then the next, and then the next, each bastion bigger than the from the Temple and the truly colossal halls of the Senate itself, I doubt there was a structure that had been raised on this hemisphere of the Throneworld greater than this.

The Impossible Citadel.

A solitary figure in grey robes stands in front of the superstructure, between towering brass doors. The figure waits, watching our approach like a hawk prepared to swoop. It is not until we are five paces away when a face is revealed from beneath the cowl.

"You came," Amarinthe remarks. She does not look pleased by this. In fact, The Keeper looks barely recognizable from the Temple grounds. Her hair is plain, without the flamboyancy of Coruscant's elite. At first glance, her grey robes resemble ordinary rough spun. But then I notice symbols stitched into the fabric, strange insignia and hexagrams that bear no meaning to traditional Order ranks. It suggest allegiances and hierarchies known only within her circle.

"As agreed," Revan replies.

"I hoped you would not." The Keeper glances behind him. "But why did you bring your Shield Bearer? Why did you bring the Golden One?"

I shrug. "Loyalty."

"Curiosity," Mysteel chimes in.

Amarinthe's frown deepens. "I wish you both had less of that."

Mysteel and I share confused looks. "Your Citadel is impressive." I say eventually.

"This is not the Citadel." Before I can ask what that means, Amarinthe turns away. "Come with me."

The great doors sigh open, just wide enough for a soul to enter. Light spills through the crack and we enter.

I expected opulence. I expected grandeur to match the soaring arches of our Temple proper. Instead, we come into a dimly lit hall. The ceilings are high, with wall mounted candles on both sides but they are dreary and plain. I see none of our holy iconography, no banners proclaiming fealty to the eternal Republic.

Instead there are bodies, sitting, lying in random arrangements. They swell among us like a living ocean of brown-robed penitents. Many look close to expiring, parched and withered from months without adequate food or water, bloated with contagion so typical to the Thronworld's foul roots.

"Who are these people?" Mysteel asks.

"Patients," Amarinthe says dryly. "This is a hospital for the terminally ill."

I scoff. "Sister, this is no time for jokes."

She shrugs. "It is all part of the masquerade. That doesn't stop Coruscant's destitute from seeking our aid."

We pass by figures dressed like Amarinthe. They mill about, distributing food and water to the penitents. The workers _do_ look like monks or menials and could easily be mistaken for a minor order of Hospitallers.

"Any auditor looking too closely might notice we never had licenses from the Chamber of Labour," Amarinthe continues. "So we pay the tithes and bribes we need to, cultivate the right members of the planetary officials, and pursue our true vocation under a cloak of semi-obscurity."

Revan gives a nod of approval. "I can see the merit of this smoke screen," he remarks. "Spies never look too closely among the sick and dying."

And there were many of them. Far too many to count, far too many to halt – a host of the sickly dredged from every backwater level in the Under City and hurled into its heart of tarnished gold. Many cry out for salvation, gasping out their confessions before their strength gave out, before being replaced by the hundreds coming on behind.

"It suits our needs," Amarinthe agrees. We reach the other end of the hall and the Keeper rests her hand on a nondescript side door. "But even the most determined spies would not get past this point."

She opens it and we are brought to a narrow corridor filled with rows and rows of wooden doors. Like the hall there is nothing special about the doors, no numbers or ornamentation to mark one as unique. Amarinthe walks down the corridor, turns left, walks fifty meters then right. This continues and after two minutes, I lose track of the sequence entirely. Some corridors are merely one door long and others impossibly distant. I also feel spatial incongruity and realize that the laws of physics could not possibly abide this physical combination of twists and turns. Could the chambers be changing? Shifting and asserting themselves to new configurations?

I judge twenty minutes pass before Amarinthe chooses one final door, seemingly at random. She sweeps in as does Revan. After exchanging uneasy looks with Mysteel, we follow suite.

Instead of a corridor, we emerge into a large circular chamber. I stare in wonder, for unlike every room before it, this one is lavishly decorated. And yet, the style is not of any culture I have ever encountered. There is none of Coruscant's noble sensibilities, nor does it resemble our Order's designs. It is entirely... _alien_.

Strange stone edifices with ornate obsidian windows surround the circumference, one after the other, until their number and expanse became numbing. On the floor, blacker than the night was a cyclopean hexagram. The carving is of such mind-bending detail that my eyes water simply trying to process one tiny speck of it.

Perfect geometric shapes are carved in recursive patterns within its contours, repeated ad nauseam yet always forming new dimensions that somehow point to the centre. And yet, if you tilt your head and look at it from another angle, the shapes _change,_ forming new symbols, new meanings. I suspect one could study this marvel for a lifetime and never even come close to discerning its full complexity.

Amarinthe sweeps to the center of the hexagrammic circle and turns to face us.

"This is where I leave you," she announces.

"You will not accompany us?" I ask.

The Keeper shakes her head. "I can only show you the gate. The rest is up to you."

Mysteel looks around, bemused. "I see no gate, sis."

"It's here, have not doubt," Amarinthe declares. She looks Revan. "But before we get into that, I implore you brother, one last time. Turn back."

"I cannot," Revan says quietly. "I am Oathed to this."

Amarinthe sees the resolve on my brother's face and sighs. "Take heed then. Once you step through the threshold, you and your companions will be like wayfarers out at sea. The tides will be treacherous. Avoid the shoals and the predators that seek to ensnare you."

"A strange analogy," I remark.

"More apt than you think," Amarinthe warns. "You will see a beacon. Follow it, for the light is your destination. But beware, you will witness things. Things that defy description or explanation. Do not engage with this phenomena. Ignore the phantasms or their siren calls for they will only seek to lead you astray. Most importantly, _hide_ whenever possible. You cannot fight these things."

"Understood," says Revan.

"Trust _nothing_ ," Amarinthe stresses. "Resist all temptations and remember: Follow the light."

We nod. Unease begins unravelling within my gut. I feel a...presence emerging in this room, like a sea leviathan slowly rising from the depths to snatch us down. My companions sense it too, judging by the growing wariness that darkens their features. "So what now?" Mysteel asks. "Is this room a teleportation chamber, or...?"

"No, nothing so primitive," says Amarinthe. Behind her, I notice the wall mounted crystals pulsing with heat, accompanied by a soft wet noise. Strangely, it reminds me of a beating heart.

"What's happening?" I ask suspiciously.

Amarinthe ignores the question, posing one of her own instead. "Have you ever wondered why so little of the elder powers have been discovered or documented?"

"Elder powers?" I echo. What is she talking about? Amidst my confusion, the noise becomes fretful, like the herald for a swarm of locusts. "Why are you asking this now?"

"Because you are about to enter one of their forgotten domains," Amarinthe explains. "And perhaps then, you will understand why so little of them is known. Or should be known."

Her cryptic remarks unsettle me ever more. "Enough theatrics, sister. Where is the Nexus Gate? How do we pass through it?"

When Amarinthe smiles, it is devoid of compassion. "How does anyone get into the Netherworld? You die."

I glare at her. "That's not funny sis-,"

I clutch my robes. A sudden pain erupts within my breast, hot and vivid. Force, it feels like a thousand daggers are shredding my heart. My heart...my _heart_! I can no longer feel it beating. Roaring, I collapse and distantly hear my companions succumb as well. Amarinthe stares down at us. It is her. _Her_.

"Sister..." I choke out. "What...what are you doing?"

Amarinthe doesn't answer. She looks sad, regretful. That doesn't make this crime any less inexplicable. More figures appear around us, bleeding out from the chamber's shadows like wraiths. Cowled Keepers, holding daggers black as flint.

"Such a waste," she murmurs.

At a signal they surround us, grasping and clawing our robes with ice cold hands. I try to shout, to hurl my weight against them but all strength has left me. The daggers rise and fall. I hear a scream. Mysteel? Damn them. Damn them all!

I do not feel the killing blow. I cannot even see the wound. Everything feels numb. Lights are flashing though. I can see them all around me. Was it the crystals or the mournful pulses of dying souls?

"Farewell, brothers. Little sister," comes Amarinthe's voice. It sounds impossibly far away and is fading fast. "I doubt we will see each other again. In any existence."

I cannot reply. I do not even possess the strength to hurl one last curse before plunging into the eternal void.

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Revan and his companions are never heard from again. The end._

 _Haha, can you imagine? But seriously, this is just the beginning of a rabbit hole. Expect lots of creepy things to happen in the next chapter._

 _Celeste might seem like an unnecessary, one off character, but trust me she's all part of the plan. I also wanted to use this chapter to explain why the Triumph is such a big deal to begin with. Because when it finally happens...hoo boy._

 _Once again, thanks to all my readers. Hope you enjoyed the little tour through Coruscant's levels._ _Any feedback would be great. And please spread the word if you like the story so far. Thanks!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **R4t0rian**_ _chapter 16 . Oct 30, 2018_

 _Thanks for the feedback! Kreia is definitely a worthy foe for Revan. Things will only escalate between them. To apocalyptic levels some might say =)._

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 16 . Oct 6, 2018_

 _Thanks! Hope you liked the latest chapter!_

 _ **RevJohn1171**_ _chapter 16 . Sep 27, 2018_

 _Thanks, glad you liked the subtle references =). Yep, Kreia finally shows up and oh yes, will she be a thorn in Revan's side from now on. He will definitely have his hands full in the next chapter as well, trying to attempt the impossible._


	25. Chapter 18 - The Nightmare To Come Pt1

_**Chapter 18**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _?_

The pain is how you know you're alive.

Pain is fundamental in our genetic makeup, woven inextricably into our blood and fused with our primal need to survive. It is a core tenant in the Jedi Code, one echoed from the moment we take up a blade until the day we die. That pain kept me focused during the Mandalorian siege of Solace. The litany was on my lips as I suffered horror after horror at Corvaine. So I recite it even now under my breath, between mouthfuls of air filled with ash and death.

Reality comes back in blotched circles. Dimly, I am aware that my companions are with me, gagging on all fours. That we are alive is miraculous for none of us should have survived Amarinthe's world ending pain.

My head swims. It is hard to focus but I can sense an absolute and unearthly spiritual hatred in the air. The Force is strong here...too strong. It is raw and condensed into dreadful purity, flooding across my senses, crashing against me like the gales of a maelstrom. Mysteel gives voice to the pain.

"Oooh, my head," she mumbles. "Why is everything sore? Did I just get laid?"

"I-it feels as if my soul was ripped from my body," I mutter and rise gingerly. With some relief, I note all my appendages still function. There is also a curious lack of stab wounds. Where did those wretched daggers fall?

"What in the hells did Amarinthe do?" Mysteel wonders aloud. "Did she betray us?"

A good question. She is not here to answer it, none of her hexed kind are. A quick glance tells me this is not the same chamber where we fell. It is too oppressively dark. The floor is not embossed with their stunning hexagram and feels uncomfortably damp. My bleary eyes can make out black stonework around us but it vandalized. Scattered in chunks like age old detritus.

"She did exactly what I requested," comes Revan's voice. He appears in front of us, his dark eyes darting between our surroundings. "We are in the Keeper's realm now, sister."

"Stop calling me that," Mysteel complains.

"But _where_?" I ask exasperated. "Are we still on the Throneworld?"

For once, my brother looks uncertain. He takes his blade out and ignites it. The walls become suffused with a mournful light, glistening with mildew and long settled fungi. We are in a vast cavernous spaced, one suited for feasting or dancing perhaps. Massive pillars surround us, taller and thicker than a Rancor's thigh. Their architecture speaks of faded extravagance, every surface painfully etched with dusty symbols and swirling murals. Only spine-bending labour or the ministrations of Force weavers could achieve such wondrous effects.

Much of those wonders have been defiled, stained with long dried blood. _Gallons_ by the looks of things, spattered and streaked across the floor as if something mopped it with corpses. I can taste stale vitae in the air too, a copper tang that lingers even after the bodies have long decomposed. There are mounds of broken bones and headless skeletons crushed amidst the debris. All echoes of violence that hint at long forgotten atrocities.

There is nothing to explain how we came here however. No ship, no footprints, not even the residual energy displacement from mass teleportation. It seems we simply arrived into this ruin, funnelled from the Keeper's chamber by powers beyond comprehension.

There is weak light leaking from cavernous holes in the ceiling. I walk towards a large one and crane my head up. A sickly green sky glares down at me. It reminds me of a weeping sore, a smog choked cloudscape bleeding fell illumination between the cracks. Lightning splits the skies frequently, always followed by grating thunder. The accompanying wind is riven by the bellowing of inhuman sounds, almost like screams.

"I do not see the sun," Mysteel murmurs behind me. Her voice is uneasy.

"Nor the moon," I add.

"None of these landmarks look familiar," Revan agrees. "Wherever we are, it is not Coruscant."

He points. My gaze falls upon the horizon, where the pinnacles of jagged mountains can be seen, thrusting skywards like ebony spears. Even greater edifices are hinted beyond, shrouded by blackened dust.

Past all this is a stranger phenomenon, one that towers above all others yet witnessed. At the farthest edges of sight, I can make out a glowing pillar. It looks ephemeral and stretches from the mountaintops to the wounded heavens, twisting and swirling like a tornado. The smog choked clouds recoil from its might, leaving a giant bleeding vortex in the sky. Unbidden, Amarinthe's warning echoes in my ears.

 _Follow the light._

"That must be the Citadel," I remark.

Revan frowns, unconvinced. "Assumptions are not helpful, brother." He turns his attention back to our immediate surroundings. "And it is not our primary concern right now. We need to find a more defensible location. Assess our situation and develop practicals."

"Maybe we should-" Mysteel freezes suddenly, lekku twitching. She switches to battle sign.

 _Movement. To our left._

Wordlessly, we ignite our blades. The three of us fall into a defensive triangle, stance low, tracking the shadows for signs of movement. Every piece of rubble and bone pile is a potential ambush point and I can see motes of smoke falling from the statues. The slightest displacement of floor dust. Danger.

Revan unclips a flare from his belt and tosses it into the murk. It erupts to life underneath a slanting wall. Something flinches. Something large and humanoid. It tries to scuttle away but Mysteel snaps out a hand and holds it in place. It resists, but I lend my will to hers and we reel it in like a fish. A giant pile of rags flies face down at our feet. Revan grabs the squirming thing by the scruff of its neck and brings his lightsaber close for inspection.

I see a face. A frightened face, puckered and gangrenous like decomposed food. It is a male I think, but the deformities make it impossible to identify his species. Hands, neck and cheeks are infested with a riot of cysts and tumours. His clothes are scarcely better, ripped and threadbare robes soaked in blood. A malformed mouth open and closes, trying to form words through bleeding gums.

"P-please, don't k-kill me."

My brother considers the wretch and looks back into the murk, unblinking.

"Reveal yourselves," he commands.

For a second, there is no response. Then one by one, shadows peel away from the detritus, hobbling into view. Hunched and twisted things like the first, afflicted with weeping sores and dangling skin that droop and slough like melting candles. They approach from all corners, constricting us like a noose.

"Who are you? Speak quickly!" one demands. The command is delivered in a slurring lisp. Their deformities make speech barely understandable.

I eye our adversaries warily. Some carry lightsabers, each erupting to life as they skulk into the open. Others hold strange torches and spears. They are tipped with purple shards that glow an eerie purple. No, not glow. An _unlight_ , swallowing the meek gloom we already have. The vagabonds outnumber us at least ten to one but many carry obvious wounds. One or two look like they can barely stand. I glance at Revan, waiting for a signal to strike.

He is not staring at the speaker but to a figure lurking behind the mob. This one is hooded and stands straighter than the rest, its height a match for my own.

"I will tell you nothing," my brother says calmly.

The speaker takes a step forward. Both their blades are inches apart. "And why is that?" growls the thing.

"Because I don't trust you."

A pause. The aggressor glances behind its back. Then to my surprise, its lightsaber is lowered and deactivated. The shadowed figure detaches itself from the gloom, gliding towards us.

"A good answer," says its parched voice. "Paranoia will keep you alive here."

The circle parts, letting the newcomer stop in front of Revan. It removes its cowl, revealing a bald creature with flaking yellow skin. I cannot tell a gender. The upper lip is missing. Parts of the face look like it has been doused in flames and one eye is scorched black.

"My companions call me Halden." The stranger blinks and tilts its head. "And you... judging by your clothing, the three of you are from the Throneworld."

Revan says nothing but there is little point in denying it.

"They could be Primordial Predators, wearing their victim's skin," someone warns from my right. This speaker carries one of their strange torches and waves it at my face. As the shard passes I feel a dread sensation. A deadening of the senses, almost like wearing a Force Collar. I do my best not to recoil.

Halden gives a phlegm filled chuckle. "Would those tormentors worry about finding shelter? No, we can trust what we see I think. Stand down."

There is some muttering but Halden's subordinates slowly lower their weapons and breaks their encirclement. Mysteel and I relax fractionally.

"See? A gesture of good faith," Halden slurs and stares at us expectant. Revan maintains his gaze on it but lowers his blade tip to the ground. He pushes his whimpering prisoner back to Halden. The pathetic thing scampers behind his leader for protection.

"Good, this is progress," says Halden nodding. "So tell me, why have you come unbidden to this sacred place?"

The three of us share uncertain looks. "We were invited," I offer eventually. Some of the mob scoff, a harsh rasping noise squeezed from ruined lungs. Halden's lower lip twitches in a ghoulish smile.

"Nobody is invited here," it chides. "You were either recruited or you come as thieves. Judging by your ignorance, I would assume the latter."

"And who are you?" Revan asks.

Halden glances at its companions and shrugs. "Failures. The Lost and the Damned. This motley crew took the Keeper's trials and were found wanting."

One of Halden's followers hisses. Despite all the deformities, I can tell the speaker is Cerulean from the conical head. The voice is still recognizably female.

"Halden, you should not tell outsiders these things," she scolds. "Never divulge your secrets, not even in extremis."

"And what use are keeping secrets, Kove," Halden murmurs. "When we are all dead warriors walking?"

The ghoulish leader smiles at us.

"You see, failed initiates have a choice. Undergo lobotomization or become fuel for the Soul Engines. We chose neither so they cast us out. Now we wander the Wastes, waiting."

I grimace. The term Soul Engine is unfamiliar but I can glean enough from the context. But _lobotomization_? The Keepers have always cultivated a wary respect from other Circles for their esoteric might is one of the few things everyone knows. Yet to hear of this...the sheer barbarity of their induction rituals repulses me.

"That's horrible," Mysteel gasps. "Couldn't the Keepers return you to...err to wherever you came from?"

Kove shakes her bulbous head bitterly. "We know too much. Once you are inducted into the Keeper's ways, there only three ways out. Pass the trials, become a miserable flesh automaton."

"Or die," Halden finishes. "We could not even accomplish that."

"You said you were waiting," Revan says slowly. "For what, exactly?"

Kobe whips her sullen glare at him. "What else? A painful death," she snaps. "And it will be painful. Nothing dies peacefully in this realm. You think we were so few and wretched at the start? No, the Wastes claimed us in handfuls and each death was worse than the last." She wipes away bloody sweat with a trembling hand. "The things I've seen out there...Force, I wish the Keepers never took an interest in me."

The decrepit thing hugging Halden's legs peeks out from cover. It is shivering despite the sweltering heat, eyes wide and unfocused. "You can feel it, can you?" it whispers. "It gnaws at you, gnaws at your very _being_ like paint off a wall. Breaks you down like chaff, until nothing is left but your wretched souls." He bites his filthy nails, glancing around nervously.

"And then the _changes_ begin. Oh I see it. Novjar sees the shape of nightmares to come. They are terrible."

I look at the pathetic creature, my frown deepening. " _Where_ are we? What place has the power to warp reality?"

The initiates stare at me. I cannot tell if they are amused by the question or scornful. "We are in the realm where mortality and eternity meet," says Halden calmly.

I am in no mood for poetry. "Speak plainly," I growl.

Halden laughs. "You might as well wish for the universe to gutter out or the answers to all things. Speak plainly? Very well, you stand on soil where the greatest of species once trod upon. The race that many after considered divine for they did nothing less than mould the cosmos themselves."

It sighs and a mournful look flickers over its ravaged features. "Before their fall at least. Before they grew complacent and allowed slave races like the Rakata and Killiks to overthrow them."

"None of that matters now," Kove mutters. "All you need to know is this is one of their Fallen Kingdoms. And everything is fodder for this hell, fertilizer to birth new and horrible things."

"B-but there must be a w-way out," Novjar stutters. He straightens suddenly, eyes wide. "You see? They got in. _In here with Novjar!_ Clever, clever. Yes, tricky ones know things we don't!"

He shuffles and clutches the hem of my robe, grovelling on all fours. "Please, brother. Sweet kind brother," he sobs. "Tell Novjar what you know. What do we have to do? How does Novjar get _out_?"

The mania in his voice is disconcerting. It is clear his mind has long since broken from repeated psychological trauma. I can only imagine what horrors could unman a Jedi so.

One of the survivors spits on him. "To think you were once the enclave's champion."

Kove is equally caustic. "If only you had died sooner," she grumbles. "More of us would be standing here."

"Be kind, Kove," Halden says gently. Alone among these wretches, this one seems unperturbed by their predicament. "Novjar is merely further down the path. Sooner or later, you will all be like him. Bereft of courage, pride. Sanity."

His words chill my soul. Will our bodies and minds degenerate to their sorry state, given enough time? No, I could stomach the thought.

"We need to get to the Impossible Citadel," Revan declares. "Do you know the way?"

Halden doesn't reply. Its withered head is cocked one way and its one good eye is unfocused. It is at this point I feel the heat. The chamber is become warmer, painfully so. The walls are moist. Liquid begins leaking into the room. It looks like...Force protect me. It looks like _blood_.

"At last," Halden breathes. The survivors notice the change as well. They become agitated, alert. Kove ignites her blade, whipping her head around frantically. Novjar screams and begins rocking back and forth.

"They've found us!" one shouts. "The terrors come!"

"How?" another snarls.

"They smell fear, so much of it," Halden husks. "The denizens of this realm _covet_ fear. Feed on it. They are drawn to it like moths to the flame."

"But the wards-!"

"Were broken by their arrival." The leader of the troupe inhales deeply, as if savouring the growing mania. "It will be a bountiful feast, I think. But it is no less than you deserve for you intrude on sacred ground."

Kove whirls on her leader. "Force, what has gotten into you, Halden?" she spits. "Why are you saying these things?"

Halden turns. The blackened eyeball slops out of the socket. Its smile becomes inhumanly long, like stretched canvas.

 _ **"You keep calling me Halden. But Halden has been dead for a very long time."**_

Novjar screams. He tries to scurry away but gaunt hands pin him to the floor. Halden's face elongates even more. The jaw unhinges and clamps Novjar's face like a vice. His howls intensify.

"Shit!" one of the outcasts shouts. Two pile onto Halden and try to pull it away from Novjar. They are flung away with a shrug of bony shoulders. It rumbles. There is a wet crack as fangs finally bore through Novjar's skull. The screaming stops. Then the thing that was Halden begins slurping Noviar's brain out, sucking it like meat through a crab leg.

I roar my revulsion and impale Halden through the spine. It doesn't flinch, not even when I saw through sideways. Half its torso is missing but the Halden creature continues feasting on Novjar's insides like some obscene parasite.

Its head explodes. Kove's torch erupts through Halden's temple with a thunderous discharge. Pieces of the head fly everywhere spattering us with black viscera and rotten teeth. The body flops over Novjar's bloody remains.

"Fuck!" Kove snarls and stamps the remains of Halden's head into a viscous paste. "I should have _known_! Halden never volunteered to hold a torch. He never held a fucking torch!"

She snaps her rotten glare at us. "You three brought this calamity upon us. You better help us kill them!"

The Cerulean shoves her torch into Revan's hand. "Take this. Blades have limited effect unless they're weakened."

She shoulders past before I can ask what that means, bellowing orders to the remaining troupe. The initiates fall into ragged formations. They mutter amongst themselves, barely listening to instructions or bothering to maintain cohesion. Halden was right. They are fearful and it has bled away what little discipline they possess.

"Damn it all, it sounds like a whole army. Should we use the grenades?"

"That will _cripple_ us. Use them only as a last resort."

Someone shouts a warning. "They come! Prepare yourselves!"

Across the walls, I see oily cysts squeezing through the cracks. Every point of lurid moisture begins to intensify, scores of them, _hundreds_ , until the ruined surroundings resemble a sea of its own, a bloody mirror to the one that cycles above the cloud barrier.

They howl as they are born. I watch in horror as they begin ripping into instantiation pressing against shriven embryos. Then the first nightmare infants burst out, bathed in birth-fluid, their bodies extending upwards and outwards, with backs spawning malformed spikes or wings. Bodies sprout black-on-black eyes, multiple tongues erupt from distended jaws and they croak while flexing talons that erupt from firming scab-flesh.

These newborn swarm us, growing rapidly with each agonized step, grunting, howling, _laughing_. They attack without thought to cohesion or tactics, choosing the closest target or simply on a whim.

I am at a loss to describe their appearance. There is no logical anatomy to these abominations, no hint of practical evolution. They are simply horrors, dredged from the deepest chasms of our psyche, given insane form by stolen flesh. Their bodies seem to be woven from the purest spectrums within the Force. Of fear, spite and hate but driven by an agonized will long driven mad.

The only rationalization is my eyes simply cannot process the true forms of our attackers. My mind is reduced to perceiving malformed terrors that could not possibly exist in our material realm.

A...thing charges me. Its form is vaguely humanoid, but its lissom white face is incomprehensible. Mouths, _multiple mouths_ sprout where nose and eyes should be, gibbering nonsense. In its warped hand is a jagged piece of metal, scored and pocked with rust and strung to a petrified wood handle. The implement is so crude, it does not deserve be called a sword. By all rights, my lightsaber should have shorn through it like butter. Somehow, _somehow_ the rusted scrap bats aside my strikes, remaining intact even as the impact showers us in sparks. And like its appearance, the attacks are haphazard and chaotic. It is all I can do to deflect their sheer ferocity and unpredictability.

I duck an wild overhead and counter thrust into its rippling torso. Globules of black liquid spurts from the wound. The thing hunches over. I withdraw my weapon, thinking it the end. To my horror, its skin re knits immediately, without even a hint of a scar. It lunges again.

Revan shoves the gloom torch into its face. The monstrosity shrieks and I can hear genuine fear in that sound. The attacks flounder and Mysteel slips in between us to skewer it with a well placed thrust. The predator does not heal. It explodes, the substance of its being dissipating into bloody viscera.

A gibbering twisted creature capers in. The body has the texture of melted red wax but the limbs end in sharp points. It tries to impale Mysteel as she lands but I grab the talon moments before it can impale her. The thing gurgles outrage at me, pushing against my weight. My brother ends its struggle with a brutal bisection.

From there, we slip into instinctual rhythms, helping each other fend off the encroaching monsters. I am the anvil, interposing myself between the mass of claws and teeth, using my sheer bulk to knock crush attacks aside. Mysteel darts in between moments, delivering ripostes and slashes that sends the nightmares screeching as they reel back. My brother performs the role of executioner, bathing the wounded horrors in fell light before one of us extinguishing them with precise blows to deformed skull and chest.

Our movements are efficient, economical. Their is no need to shout warnings or commands for countless hours of joint practice and campaigns have seen us synchronize like a well oiled machine. We cover each other's blind spots on instinct, deflect while the other thrusts.

I catch snatches of battle from the initiates. For all their outward decrepitude, they fight like warriors possessed. They unleash their powers in calamitous shockwaves, in eye watering torrents of lightning that render predators into atoms. I bear witness as air splitting harmonics obliterate chaotic hordes, leaving only the largest in semi corporeal agony. The Force overspill is palpable as some wade into the enemy, blades whirling. Every physical blow is matched by a corresponding thrust of their gloom spears. Esoteric torches flare, inspiring unbridled dread.

But they are uncoordinated. Kove tries to muster them, to maximize their devastation but initiates pay little heed, choosing to blast away at random targets. They are our complete opposite, single islands of defiance without thought to their allies. We are winning though. Between our discipline and their fury, we are pushing these nightmares back and I dare to hope we can overcome this onslaught.

The ground starts to shake. Something is pummelling through the diminished ranks, something large. Then I see it, a giant oval shaped monstrosity. It has no eyes, no appendages save for a hundreds of grotesque insect legs that should not support its bulky frame. The lower purple grey mass opens and reveals a screaming maw. A maw filled with rows upon rows of rotted fangs. It is obscenely huge, wide enough to swallow a battle tank.

The initiates pour licks of lightning at it and swathes of filthy matter burn away. Several of its legs fry and crack apart, making it wobble. It keeps coming, its huge mass barrelling through the barrage like a prow through water.

"Bring it down!" Kove shouts. "Someone bring that thing _down_!"

More legs burst. It loses support and the head crashes sideways but momentum keeps it hurtling forward into the initiates. They try and scramble out of the way.

Too late.

The giant smoking mouth crashes into their ranks. It rips through flesh like a thresher maw and sends broken bodies spinning. The thing finally tumbles in a sea of congealed blood, squirming amidst a pile of screaming bodies. The right flank has fallen. Monstrosities follow in its wake.

"Support them!" Revan growls. The three of us finish off the closest horrors and begin a desperate advance towards the centre. Claws and barbed tails slash at us. Deformed beasts spit bioluminescent plasma. Revan slices apart a drooling toad creature and sends lesser monstrosities reeling with a flick of his hand. I knock back a lupine beast trying to rip off my head and Mysteel finishes it with a precise thrust through its mouth. Dodge, parry and cleave. We can only fend off the worst attacks while bleeding for every precious meter of ground.

We close ranks with the survivors but the damage is done. An initiate struggles to stand as a feathered horror lumbers toward him. Talons the size of my arm carve into his chest cavity and lifts him off his feet. He is pirouetting like a dancer, spurting blood contrails before falling to the ground in two halves. Another initiate is picked up by a flapping abomination with two worms for heads. It flings its victim into a horde of giant beetles and he barely has time to scream as legs and arms are hacked away by giant antennae.

The thing dives in again to snatch more prey. Revan times his thrust as it passes, pinning it to the ground with his torch. I cleave the writhing monstrosity in half. Then we wade into morass of unclean flesh, fending them off and buying precious seconds for the initiates to reorient themselves. Those survivors struggle to summon their Force reserves. They fire desultory forks of lightning but their arm is wild, and only a few lesser beasts are incinerated.

A strange droning sound assaults my ears. I whip my head around to see a spongy morass of flesh floating towards us. A...a brain? Since when does a brain have eyes? Tentacles protrude from its base and ends in gibbering mouths. The mouths vomits. It is pure energy, concentrated salvos of the Force itself. I shove Mysteel out of the line of fire, letting the attacks engulf initiates in a cloud of scintillating colours. One explodes. Others begin bubbling and melting as if struck by lightning. A few mutate rapidly, sprouting their own obscene morass of tumours while thrashing uncontrollably.

Only one avoids the torrent. He roars, thrusting lightsaber and spear into the giant brain matter. The thing recoils. The sticky matter of its being loses cohesion and the tentacles bray as if wounded. The initiate pulls back to strike again but two tentacles whip around its legs. The pulsing mass of flesh yanks him off its feet and thumps onto his chest with a wet squelch.

"No! Get if off! Get if _off_!"

Giant tentacles gouge out the initiate's eyes. Other tendrils enter through his mouth, the ears. I hear the snap of a spinal chord being severed. The initiate is dead but the tentacles burrow deeper, _deeper_ , engorging the meat husk like fingers in a flesh puppet.

There is no more time to watch his grisly demise. A tortured roar echoes through the hall. I turn just in time to see a naked horned monstrosity barrelling into our formation. The monster is skinless, with pale muscle fibers glistening with fresh kills. Revan takes the brunt of its charge. He is launched into the air and skids several meters. Mysteel moves to help but something sharp snaps at her face. She recoils, just in time to see a green blur try and disembowel her. A female I think, with giant grab claws for hands. Its malformed head shrieks as it attacks and the two become locked in a furious dance.

The avian horror I saw before piles into me, clacking its beak. One hit would slice me in two but its attacks are haphazard and slow. I parry a rending talon and spin to chop off the follow up attack. One of its scorched limbs drops to the floor. The horror ignores the disarmament and embeds its remaining talon into the meat of my shoulder. I roar, falling on my back. The monster screeches and my free hand struggles to pry away the snapping beak.

Our gazes meet. Eyes with insane malevolence stare down at me. The thing is a bottomless pit of hunger and my essence is the only thing that will satiate it. It hates me. It hates everything. My opponent is that most primal of emotions made manifest. And with each moment it grows larger, engorged on the kills and screams that sustains its existence.

 _It covets fear. Feeds on it._

The thing tries to burrow the talons deeper. I let it, grabbing the head as it surges in and twist it like a corkscrew. There is the satisfying snap of bone. I pick it up as I regain balance and look to where Revan fell. The giant has one hand around his neck while landing consecutive haymakers in a one sided brawl. His weapon lays discarded and it is all my brother can do to stay alive.

With a grunt, I hurl my kill into the skinless monster. The corpse smashes into its back and the meaty grip falters. Revan breaks its hold, simultaneously extending a hand to his fallen weapon. He swings down as the giant tries to rise. The tumor ridden face sloughs off, revealing a mess of brain matter and sinew, like a poorly drawn anatomical diagram.

Revan sees Mysteel wrestling with her misshapen opponent. One claw is perilously close to her neck and our sister struggles with both hands to keep it from snipping off her head. My brother aims and hurls his blade like a javelin. It thunks between the monster's shoulder blades. The monster arches in pain and her claws fall away. Mysteel activates her wrist mounted gauntlet. A vicious swipe of the miniature energy blade severs her opponent's neck. She tosses his weapon back with a nod.

More of the Primordial Predators come, screaming obscene cant that makes my ears bleed. There seem to be no end to them and only a few initiates remain. Those that survive are isolated. They scream as naked banshees flay them alive with pincers. Others are being hacked apart or subsumed into screaming flesh, violating them in ways that defy description. Our brothers and sisters die brutally and they die howling. None of their deaths are quick. These abominations seem to delight in prolonging their prey's agony, sampling the pain like Amarinthe would sample a fine wine. Not that they have any kinship with each other. Smaller fiends are ripped apart by behemoths in a gluttonous quest to consume Jedi flesh.

The three of us have serious wounds. We will need electrolytes and medical attention if we are to maintain combat efficiency but there is no respite from this storm. We barely manage to reform ranks just as a tiny misshapen horde waddle in. These are squat bloated things with leering faces and sharp needle like claws. We hack off limbs that reach for our necks, sever bodies with gouts of Force and rip away stabbing tails. They keep piling into us, cackling as they die. These things are fodder and they know it, sacrificing themselves with gleeful abandon until we are too weary to fend off the greater threats.

Block, slash, parry, grunt and die. Combat becomes an indistinguishable blur. Our blows becomes less coordinated. There is no longer the calculated expenditure of Force. Only the instinctual rage of warriors that refuse to die.

Something resembling a mollusk lashes multiple tentacles at Revan, too many for him to block. I see my brother reel as he is struck, his defences momentarily breached. I interpose myself between him and his attacker, slicing its head from its shoulders before spinning back to face the next one. The delay costs me, leaves me a fraction of a second shy of where my blade needs to be, and a heavy blow cracks into my shoulder, knocking me down. I flip over to see a drooling worm towering over, its fanged maw opening impossibly wide to swallow me.

There is a green slash. The worm's upper half tumbles away and the rest crashes to ground. A panting face hovers above me. Kove. She is bleeding from head to toe but she is alive.

"Get up!" she snarls. I take her proffered hand, grimacing with every grind of bone.

I barely manage to stand before a talons erupts through Kove's abdomen. She screams, her blood splattering against my face. Her body is lifted high and I see what impaled her. It is huge. A horror with pulsating flesh and a riot of thrashing tentacles.

It is the brain. The parasitic monstrosity that killed the initiate has subsumed completely into its host. Patches of robes are still visible around its obscene mass and I can see the horrified scream stretched taught over stolen skin. The thing continually mutates before our eyes. Bony extrusions have unfurled from the back and forehead. Legs crack and fuse, reorienting into spindly shapes.

It paddles towards us on giant fleshy limbs. Force harmonics burst from obscene orifices. Monsters and dead initiates are crushed underfoot. Some try to crawl away and are swiftly snatched up by hungering tentacles, blubbery appendages infested with gibbering mouths. They gnaw and gnash wildly, crushing its victims bones and rending flesh into bloody gobbets. Its eats messily, spilling chunks of Jedi all over the battlefield. Those without prey lash out at us. Revan slashes a snapping appendage off. Mysteel narrowly dodges another. I duck a wild swing, the lash pulverizing pillar after pillar.

Everyone is dead. Their bodies are strewn in several parts, ripped and desecrated. The monsters that have nothing to violate turn on each other, clawing and screaming for more. Some of them converge on the three of us, their mouths slavering, eyes bulging with insane malice.

"So this is how we die," I pant. "It is a good death at least. In battle." I look to my comrades. Mysteel is grey faced and exhausted. I can sense her despair. Revan remains inscrutable as ever, even in the face of certain demise.

"It has been an honour," I add. The words feel inadequate but I do not think there are any to convey the emotions I feel, at the end of all things.

Revan is not paying attention to me. He is looking up at the behemoth. I follow his gaze and a muffled sound catches my attention. Kove is not dead. She ought to be. Too much of her is missing and gnawed away for her to ever mend. She can't speak. She can't even express her overwhelming agony, except to paddle her fingerless hands and churn what's left of her jaw. The Cerulean isn't the source of the noise. Something on her belt is chiming, accidentally activated by the flesh strangling her body. It sounds like something being primed. It sounds like...

"Grenade!" Revan shouts. "Everyone get down!"

The explosion sweeps us from our feet. At this proximity, I expected my flesh to be stripped from the bone but there is no heat. It is much worse, that familiar wave of nausea. The horrible sensation of being cut from the Well of Infinity. My momentum hurtles me into a wall and I fall to my knees, vomiting. Slowly, I look up with bloodshot eyes. The explosion has drained me, but it is nothing compared to the devastation it inflicted.

All the Predators are dying. Many are melting or simply turning to dust, the substance of their being dissolving into the ethereal winds. The giant parasite is writhing on the floor. A bulbous chunk of the its head is missing and many of its tentacles have charred and withered. What just happened? What-.

"Grab the anathemas! Hurry!" Revan picks up a torch from a nearby body and stalks up to the giant mess of brain and tissue. He presses it into the unclean flesh and it begins to crisp and burn. The parasite screams in a hundred agonized voices.

Mysteel and I catch onto my brother's example. We scrabble for the nearest gloom weapon and begin hacking at unclean flesh. Monstrosities shrieks as their flesh come in contact with the shards. I can sense genuine fear in that sound. From my limited knowledge, I can see why. These nightmares are made from the very essence of the Force. The unlight from these shards have demonstrated the ability to nullify it. And so they are not merely dying, they are being wiped away from _existence_.

The last beast in my vicinity is a convulsing anthropoid. Like the rest, it is losing cohesion and seems to be shrinking in upon itself. Spider limbs sprout and disappear erratically. A choir of horrified faces press taut under its skin, straining to escape. Only the explosive wound remains constant, a gaping hole filled with steaming worms and weeping eyes.

"Back into the hell that spawned you," I spit and raise my blade to finish the deed.

The thing cowers, covering its loathsome face. Then it lowers its arms and I freeze.

It is the _girl_. The girl that haunts my dreams. Her chestnut hair is just as I remember and her dimpled cheeks are still flushed with fear. Her pleading eyes lock onto mine.

"Father is that you?" she whimpers. "I'm scared! Please, please help me!"

A part of me knows it is a trick. It has to be. But I hesitate and that split second is all it needs. The girl smiles. She reaches out and pain erupts in my abdomen. I stare down in disbelief. Her hand has gouged through my skin. She squeezes something and I collapse, choking in agony. Convulsions overtake me as fanged fingers rummage through my insides. My words are lost amidst gurgling blood and the girl's droning taunts.

 _ **"Save me, father! Save me!"**_ she laughs.

A gloom shard hits her between the eyes. She screams. Her head begins swelling like an overinflated balloon. Eyes bulge out, becoming larger than her lolling mouth.

 _ **"Save me!"**_

It explodes, soaking me with the viscera of her unmaking. When I manage to wipe the blood away, Mysteel is kneeling next to me. She stares at me, concern writ large.

"Shiny, are you hurt? Why did you hesitate?" she asks. Behind her, Revan stares down at me, a faint frown on his lips.

"Do you see it? Did you see her?" I ask him feverishly.

"Who?"

"The _girl_!" I rasp and struggle to my feet. "The girl that was consumed at the enclave!"

My brother shakes his head. "I saw nothing of the sort."

I stare at him, one hand clutching my shredded stomach. "What does this mean? Am I going mad?"

"No, you simply saw what you dread."

"What?"

Revan shifts his gaze to the weeping sky. "You asked me where we are. I've surmised this place is a spatial interdiction. An overlap between states of existence."

Mysteel looks at him blankly. "Are you even speaking Standard? Use smaller words!"

Revan frowns, searching for a simpler explanation. "We are in a space where the physical and the raw essence of the Force meet," he explains slowly. "A...transitional plane between our galaxy and the Netherworld."

"The Netherworld?" I echo, incredulous. "You're serious? We are in the Realm of Infinity itself?"

Revan nods. "Partially. Those things that attacked us seem to be some kind of Force manifestation. Residual spirits gone mad perhaps. Fear is their chosen weapon. And they take the forms that we associate with base emotions."

He turns away suddenly. "Search the dead. Take as many of the anathema weapons as you can find.

"You mean these shards?" Mysteel picks up the spear she threw then drops it. "They make me feel sick."

"They will keep you _alive_." Revan crouches and pulls a relatively intact initiate from the rubble. "Make sure to collect all the grenades. Those seem especially potent against the fiends. Hurry."

"We need a breather, Rev." My sister gives my wound a worried look. "And Shiny needs-"

"More of those apparitions will come," Revan stresses while rummaging through the corpse. "This is not defensible ground. We must remain mobile and prevent encirclement."

He pauses and turns back to us. "This is a challenge. The Keepers threw us in the deep end to see if we will float." A fierce light enters my brother's eyes. The same spark that tells me he is truly angry.

"They will learn the folly of questioning our capabilities."

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Phew, that was doozy to write. Hope everyone enjoyed the slaughter fest. Sorry about the wait. Holidays and such._

 _I have a big announcement! After years of neglect, I have finally updated my deviantart page! If you want to see Mysteel in 3D or cool characters, head on over to deviantart rogermein1. Look out for more announcements there!_

 _Once again, thanks to all my readers. Hope you enjoyed the opening chapter in this arc. Any feedback would be great. And please spread the word if you like the story so far. Thanks!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **Just a Crazy-Man**_ _chapter 17. Nov 20, 2018_

 _Thanks! Glad you liked it!_

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 17. Nov 20, 2018_

 _Thank you so much! Hope you keep reading!_

 _ **R4t0rian**_ _chapter 17. Nov 24, 2018_

 _Thanks for the feedback! I'm glad you liked the character development! And don't worry, the Triumph will definitely be a sight to remember =)._

 _ **RevJohn1171**_ _chapter 17. Dec 2, 2018_

 _Thanks! Yep, Exon isn't as straight and clean cut as he lets on. And his jealousy of Revan will definitely lead up to new developments. Hope you liked this latest chapter!_


	26. Chapter 19 - The Nightmare To Come Pt2

_**Chapter 19**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _?_

"Every step, a new horror," I mutter. My companions do not reply. They can see the grim truth for themselves. For we tread upon a broken landscape, an endless graveyard of apocalyptic devastation. By every metric, the Keeper's realm is a dead world, a place where mortality and eternity meet. Among all the lies the skin changer uttered, that was its one truth.

This colossal ruin was once a city I think. A metropolis even, with capacious streets long abandoned, crumbling buildings and calcified bone bridges. Many strange monuments have symbols carved across their flanks. Some are no more than faded etchings while others pulse an ominous green. None of them are comprehensible though. Signs or warnings perhaps?

I glance at my brother. "Do you recognize any of this writing?"

"No," Revan admits and I sense disquiet at his own ignorance. "I have delved deep into our archives. Studied the eons between our founding to the epoch of the Order's glory. But in all my time researching the Sundering and the great wars that preceded it, these have never surfaced."

That gives me pause. "We are somewhere that predates our Order then? Our founding?"

"Amarinthe said this was a realm of elder powers. She was not exaggerating."

"Well I wouldn't recommend living here," Mysteel grumbles. She wrinkles her nose, surveying the dilapidation. "How the hell did anyone travel? I haven't seen anything that looks like a ship or speeder."

I do not know what to say about that. If there truly was a superior civilization here, it has long since expired. But there are glimpses of greatness in this lost paradise. The carcass of skyscrapers can still be glimpsed in the smog choked horizon, higher and prouder than any on the Throneworld. Beneath fleshy roots and rotten vegetation are snatches of artful pursuits. Cracked mosaics, sculptures chiseled from gemstones. All broken, but still gleaming after years of erosion. The aesthetics are alluring but like everything else, utterly unfamiliar to my senses.

Some creations have no analogues to our reality. I see rectangular constructs hovering in midair, with no discernible purpose other than to glow with ethereal fire. Multi hued amoebas blink randomly into existence, searing away chunks of undergrowth in a vain attempt to halt their defilement. There are stranger things as well, but even their mundane edifices - the swirling towers and soaring arches - would make our finest Republic architects weep with envy.

There _was_ perfection here. A harmony of functionality and beauty which even my spartan tastes can appreciate. But like everything beautiful in this world, it all sinks slowly into the primordial mire. Gradually strangled into submission by the horror birthed from its ruined womb.

What spawned from these hallowed carcasses are truly repulsive. Pillars of blinking eyes and screaming faces gape at us as we walk by, groaning under the weight of crumbling edifices. Fleshy things ape the shape of trees, their branches a cavalcade of outstretched limbs over taut skin. The roads themselves are paved with red vines that pulse and shiver like capillaries. This city has become a riot of plenty, the endless proliferation of mutated flesh stretched over countless kilometres. I cannot begin to conceive how these occurred but I can sense its catalyst. The raw essence of Force flows through these mutated effigies. It strains and bursts at the fleshy seams, struggling to form even _more_ obscenities.

Force emanations bleed from the very fabric of space as well, plaguing our surroundings with gravimetric distortions. Boulders the size of cruisers float in midair leaking globules of black liquid. Lightning rips into instantiation, only to crystallize into ice shards. And it is not only the physical, time itself is in flux here. In some zones we walk past, droplets of black rain fall at a glacial pace while some are frozen completely in midair. There are brothers and sisters in stasis, arms raised, their last expressions frozen in a rictus of dread. We cannot approach them, lest we are sucked into their temporal hell.

"But the question must be asked," I begin slowly. "How did this travesty happen?"

None of us have a good answer. All we can say for sure is that the cataclysm left a gaping wound, still vivid like fresh wine stains. Civilizations die, it is true. It is as inevitable as the mountains eroding or the death of stars. Only the manner of their deaths can come into question. There is infighting of course. Corruption. The brutal indifference of natural disasters or the might of conquering nations. These downfalls are mundane, repeated ad nauseam the moment one man proclaimed them self above all others. But _this_...this experience is utterly alien. An entire world undone by the Force, its inhabitants wiped out by the resulting death scream.

"What occurred could not have been a natural phenomenon," Revan confirms. "Only excessive application of the Force would leave such a permanent taint."

"A gross abuse of power," I growl and resist the urge to spit. The air is so saturated with Force overspill it leaves a foul taste in my mouth. "Yet I still cannot make sense of this fallout. What are we witnessing, brother? Why is this place so...malleable?"

For long moment, Revan treads in silence, collecting his thoughts. "We know at its core, the Force is an energy field generated by all living beings," he begins. "The rawest initiate can recite this fact, yet to stop there would do the subject a great disservice. As I told Ciras, the intricacies of the Force are infinite and its boundless potential is barely tapped by limited minds."

My brother glances beyond our immediate surroundings, towards one of the many anomalies in the distance. Of all the strange things plaguing this world, _this_ one fills me with particular dread. For there are no pyrotechnics to see, no tears in the fabric of reality. Rather, I perceive it as a black hole, an entire jagged landmass devoid of light and where the whorls of Force overspill have no purchase. Its emptiness fills my soul with revulsion, not unlike the anathemas we carry and I quickly avert my gaze.

"In our Order, we have savants from different circles devoted to comprehending its true nature," my brother continues. "Hundreds of treatise and tombs are written on the subject each year. They are analyzed, debated only to be rejected after millennia of research. Our most enlightened call themselves Masters, but I fear they too are merely children stumbling in the dark."

I eye him cautiously. For all our time together, we have rarely discussed metaphysics and these revelations gives me pause. "Then what does that leave us with? Theories?"

"Theories," Revan muses. "Yes, I suppose so. For my part, I perceive the Force as an echo. A reflection of similar emotions congealing together like rivulets of water running down a cliff face. They form streams and eddies of anguish and desire, pools of hatred and torrents of pride. Since the dawn of time, these tides have flowed unceasingly through the mirror realm of the Force. And as the intelligent species of the galaxy prospered and grew, so did their hopes and dreams, their rage and wars, their love and hatred. In this way, the myriad of sentient species fed the Force, until its gestalt power held complete dominion over our physical realm."

I scratch my beard, trying to absorb what my brother is trying to tell me. "Did Master Vandar teach you that?"

Revan gives the slightest shrug of his shoulders. "We held similar views. But here is the crux of our theory. What we perceive is merely the _certus_ of the Force _,_ the tip of its infinite iceberg. Beyond the boundaries of physical space, unrestricted by time or causality, there is the _obsucrus_ , the true dimension incomprehensible to our minds. It lies on the other side of dreams and nightmares, infinite in scope but without form or structure. This is the realm where hope goes to die, and by all accounts, it is an uncaring, chaotic pandemonium of souls."

"The Netherworld," I venture with more than a little sarcasm. "You really believe this place is somehow tied to it?

Revan nods. "It has _bled_ into it. That is why this world has no constant."

"Rubbish. Pure supposition."

"There is evidence to support it," Revan insists. "Valia, a former Jedi theologian wrote of her near death experience. In her tomb _Eternity's Gate_ , she described a place where spirits rive, in constant war, fighting over the raw stuff of creation that birthed them. Titanic hosts clash there she claimed, locked together in a conflict that is as old as the universe and can never be truly won. Vast armies rage and scream, each warrior formed only of the psychic energy of emotion, and each driven onwards by the whims of their imprinted memories."

"I've never heard of her."

"Copies of Valia's work are vanishingly rare. The Exemplar Host deemed the tomb heretical and she was executed for undermining the Order with radical thoughts."

"Of course," I mutter sourly.

"Other survivors had their own accounts," Revan continues. "Captured Sith would rave that the Netherworld is a constantly churning and reforming landscape, with rivers of boiling blood flowing through petrified woodlands under crimson skies. Other Jedi spoke of great stairways leading into the sky and joining themselves from below in an ever lasting loop, where castles made of bones and fortress of ichor stand amidst copses of limbs. Some even claimed to see the departed spirits of titanic god machines slumped in graveyard heaps."

"There is little...consistency in their recounts," I note. As we talk, I become aware of a strange prickling on my skin. The sensation is slight, but it feels like something is trying to burrow into me. The air feels heavier too, more oppressive. I try to ignore these irritants.

Perhaps that is the lesson," Revan counters. "Their recounts suggest that the Netherworld is timeless and ever shifting, a dimension parallel to ours devoid of consistency and unbound by the physical laws which govern space and time. It is a random instructed panorama of pure Force energy and unfocused consciousness, unfettered by limits of physics and undirected by intelligent purpose and will. In other words, the realm of souls exists far outside imagination, an impossible abstraction made real only by metaphor and the roiling emotions of mortal minds."

Revan waves around our surroundings.

"Can you not see the parallel then? This world is constantly reborn yet has never changed, eternally wracked by mutation though endless in potential. Our mundane senses cannot see, smell or hear its true form, so our minds constructs poorly understood analogues. Because to try and glean its true nature would simply drive us insane."

He stops suddenly, eyes narrowed.

"What is it?"

"Where is Mysteel?"

He is right, she is nowhere to be seen. I curse. We should have sensed her departure but fatigue and the detonation's aftershock have addled our awareness.

"She was by my side just moments ago."

"Back. Quickly," Revan urges.

I turn. That movement, that slight shift of the head saves me. Something red shrieks past. It narrowly misses my skull to pulverize the crystal lamp inches behind. An ambush.

There is no chance to shout a warning before something black and slimy slithers around Revan's neck. He is lifted off his feet and sent crashing into a wall of thorns. I try to intervene but dark shapes drop from above. Leaping from scaffolding and broken ledges to accost us on all sides.

Some are almost human shaped, with two legs and two arms, and the head they were born with. Most are not. Some are like insects, while others have been almost entirely swallowed by unspeakable changes. Slimy tumours with teeth and spiked bones bury the remains of half-glimpsed faces. Revan is being crushed by the most afflicted of them all. The tentacle strangling him is a bloated tongue, stretching impossibly long from its malformed head. The gut is a horrific parody of a _second_ mouth, fanged and dripping with acidic drool. It opens and closes, belching out chunks of its own entrails.

Despite all these mutations, I still register their tattered robes, their rank iconography and weapons of office. More brothers and sisters, further down the path of damnation but sworn kin nonetheless.

"Desist!" I order. "We are not your enemy!"

They ignore me. The horde advances with blade and lightning tipped hands, rheumy eyes wide with desperation. Perhaps their minds have rotted. Or perhaps these wretches have seen too many betrayals and false hope to consider negotiations. Better to kill a potential ally than fall prey to those...things.

My blade flares to life and parries the swing from an afflicted brother. His head is warping, fusing into something unholy and I can see my disgust reflected back from multifaceted eyes. That revulsion fuels my next strike. I roar while swinging and my blade cleaves through his block, through most of his shoulder and out his midriff.

A blur of movement catches my eye. I turn, just in time to see a giant proboscis spear the meat of my shoulder. Pain flares, only eclipsed by my disbelief at the giant mosquito head staring back at me. The fact it is still attached to a human body makes this abomination infinitely more repugnant. I grab the offending appendage and snap it like a twig. The thing screeches, blood spewing wildly from its broken orifice. My next thrust ends its tormented existence as well as its bulbous head.

Behind the corpse, a figure darts in. I barely register the new opponent before a blade slashes across my neck, nearly severing it. My opponent spins and I briefly register a female face. Humanoid, with only the slightest traces of mutation.

She launches a blistering blade sequence. I give ground inch by inch, barely staying ahead of the onslaught. This one is fast and murderously strong. From her, I sense an emotion that far outstrips the pain and despair and one I have seen infecting the ruined souls here. It is rage. Mindless unbridled rage. Rage is the canker in our hearts that has existed since the first man murdered another. The living will never escape its influence and if we allow it, it will consume us just like all our traitorous brethren throughout the millennia.

Our blades lock and we jostle for position, trying to unbalance the other. Our faces are inches apart and I see her clearly for the first time. My blood runs cold. At a distance she looked almost untouched but now I see she is more damned than any of them.

Most of her robes have rotted away and she has replaced them with bones. _Humanoid bones_ still glistening with half chewed gristle and smashed skulls matted with bloody hair.

My opponent sees my revulsion and it stokes her fury.

 _ **"S-stop looking at me,"**_ she gurgles. The wattles of her throat quiver, making her finger necklace rattle.

 _ **"Stop...stop, judging me,"**_

"Look! Look at what you do to yourselves!" I snarl. For a moment, the fury subsides and regret flashes across her ruined face.

 _ **"Do you think I want to do this?"**_ she lisps. _**"Do you think I want to damn myself? There is no other way. Not here."**_

My opponent jabs at my open wound with sharpened claws. Agony erupts in my gut, greater than I have ever felt, greater than mortals can possibly endure. My legs fail, leaving me helpless on the looms large. Her fetid breath mists the air red. Spitting blood, I raise my hand and try to summon enough energy reserves to hurl her away.

Nothing. Not even a gust of wind. With a lurch of horror, I realize my body has short circuited, cut off from the roaring inferno of power that surrounds me. Those damned grenades.

The hag straddles my finger wrap around my neck, cold as a wight's and constricts with frightening force. I gurgle, struggling futilely against the inevitable. Beyond her, I see Revan being dragged inexorably towards the giant slavering jaws.

 _ **"Shh-shh. Just let it happen. Let me end your pain."**_

A black shroud begins to cover my eyes and I feel the last of my strength being leeched away.

There is a muffled roar. Both of us look back, surprised. Revan has jammed his palm underneath his tormentor's jaw, slamming it shut. Black bile gushes from the severed tongue and it slackens. Revan rips the writhing obscenity from his neck as its owner gurgles in pain. He pries the monster's mouth wider, forcing the discarded organ back into its gullet. The fiend begins choking to death on his own mutated tongue.

The remaining two monsters move to engage the new threat. Too slow, far too slow. My brother pounces at the first mutant and it barely manages to block the slash. A deft twist snakes Revan's blade under his opponent's guard and opens the fiend's throat. He sidesteps, just as the other thrusts clumsily. Revan holds his blade parallel as it lumbers past, carving his stomach open from groin to shoulder. Black guts and bile spew out onto dead soil.

My tormentor screams in outrage, releasing her grip on me. She surges up, roaring a challenge at Revan. Coughing, I lash out and snatch her foot. The fiend rewards my effort with several kicks to the face.

 _ **"Get off! Get off you-"**_

Revan shears her leg off. She shrieks and collapses onto the floor, clutching her smoking stump. The woman raises her lightsaber with a trembling hand and has it lopped off for the effort. The scream becomes a whine. Her fear is palpable as Revan towers over her, dark eyes boring into her shrivelled soul. At that moment, I cannot tell who is the greater monster.

 **"** _ **P-Please**_ **.** _ **Please**_ **,"** she begs, bulbous eyes wide. _**"I o-only did what I had to. T-To survive."**_

"That used to be true," says Revan quietly. He bends down and puts his hands around her bloated neck. "This will be quick."

As always, my brother is true to his word. But I doubt she appreciated the courtesy judging by her death scream. When the deed is done, he stands and glances at my wound.

"That needs to be tended to."

"I'm fine," I grunt and haul myself onto my feet. In truth my stomach wrenches with agony at the slightest movement. Internal bleeding is likely but I cannot admit weakness. We do not have the time nor resources to linger. Without another word, I walk past him and begin backtracking the way we came.

We turn a street corner, into what resembles an abandoned plaza. A flash of gold sweeps over rusty red and then I see her. Mysteel is trampling over a giant mound of bones. At the centre of the plaza is a statue, worn and draped with a nest of giant bloated vines. The vines bloom with scintillating colours and they entrance the eye, writhing with strange patterns.

More tendrils wave at Mysteel lazily, beckoning her the same way a carnivorous plant would entice a fly. Our sister complies, her movements sluggish. She seems oblivious to the threat in front of her.

"Over there," I whisper urgently. Revan nods. We begin hurrying towards her, crunching over a sea of broken bones. Why are there so many damn bones? My answer comes when the pulsing vines unfurl like a curtain. They reveal a fleshy maw filled with half chewed limbs and rotten meat. Black fluids drip from a million needle shaped teeth. The leaves begin pulsing red with anticipation.

"Mysteel!" I shout but it is no use. Our sister keeps shuffling. The broken bodies of former victims crunch under her sluggish footfalls.

"M-mother?" Mysteel I hear her whisper. Her eyes are unfocused and her lips are trembling. Outstretched arms inch closer to the slobbering maw.

"Force, I've missed you so much."

Revan hefts his anathema while running. He spears the abomination in its centre mass before the fleshy appendages can envelop our sister. The thing shrieks like a woman. Its vines shudder before darkening and dissolve into a puddle of blood.

Mysteel rounds on Revan, furious. She punches and claws at him with a savagery I didn't know she possessed. It takes both of us to restrain her. "You bastard!" she shrieks. "Why did you do that?! Why?"

"That wasn't your mother, Mysteel," I try to explain. She bucks and kicks sending new waves of agony down my gut.

"It was her!" she insists, half sobbing. Revan snatches her wrists and glares at her. His baleful eyes wrenches Mysteel out of her hysteria.

"I've seen Thalia," he says firmly. "She had two arms and legs. _One_ head. That thing was an abomination."

"But-."

"Remember Amarinthe's words," Revan orders. "Do not look. Do not engage. Trust nothing."

Mysteel takes a shuddering breath. Clarity returns to her sapphire eyes and she nods, chastened.

"She also said we should follow the light." I point to the distant horizon, towards the pillar of swirling light that greeted us when we first arrived. I have no idea what direction that is. None of our tools produce consistent bearings. "That...thing is the closest thing we have to a beacon."

Revan frowns. "I'm unconvinced she meant it that literally."

"What else do we have to go on?" I ask. Frustration must have bled into my voice for my companions give me strange looks. It is hard to remain composed with so much negative Force here. Dark tendrils burrows into our skin, always trying to find a chink in our psyche.

"I'm with Shiny on this, Rev" Mysteel says after an uncomfortable silence. "If we're going to follow her instructions, we might as well follow it to the letter." She looks at her feet. "I don't want to think what slogging through this muck will do to my boots though."

My brother looks to each of us but does not give voice to his thoughts. Reluctantly, he nods.

"As you wish."

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _?_

It isn't apparent where the city ends and when the wasteland begins but the thought occurs that the land is becoming less...solid. Forlorn towers become less frequent, giving way to strange menhirs worn by an eternity of corrosive winds. My boots begin sinking deep into spongy matter, and liquid pushes up to glisten on the surface. I see ferns and kelp-tubes threading around our feet now, each as black as nightshade and pocked with glowing phosphor-spines.

It is always night in the Keeper's realm. No dawn sun pierces its shifting clouds, and the only illumination comes from the strange light beacon that beckons us. Everything else is dying, undergoing a glacial decomposition that seems to have stretched through aeons. From time to time, phosphorescent mists belch from rotting carcasses and the bioluminescent fungi that sprout once they decompose. The only thing unaffected by this global decay is that damned black hole my brother saw earlier. Yes, I can still sense it. Even with our backs turned, its null essence tugs at my soul.

There are survivors of sorts in these swamps. No, that is too generous a word, more like bodies that have yet to realize they should expire. It is painfully obvious they are... _were_...members of the Order. Wretched brothers and sisters that have undergone the Keepers trials and have been found wanting.

Dialogue is fruitless. The groups we come across are babbling incoherently or walking in circles, oblivious to our questions. Some squat in accumulated filth, trying to eat their own fingers. A few have succumbed to their basest desires and rut in an orgiastic frenzy intermingled with ritual bloodletting.

It is hard to watch and hear these things, to see Jedi completely stripped of their discipline, their very identity. All things fear death they say, but I believe there is another fear that eats away at a Jedi's mind even more. We fear _change_ , becoming the antithesis of what we aspire to be and having these abominations paraded before me fills my mouth with bile.

The worst are those Jedi with still enough sanity to perceive their damnation. Their horrified screams intermingle with the depraved laughter of souls driven mad. One man tries to pull away from the orgy of violence, only dragged back into the mud by his debauched companions. His face is contorted in the horror of betrayal before fallen Jedi rip it apart with bloody fingers, their own black eyes wide with rapture and hatred.

When Mysteel turns to help Revan grabs her shoulder.

"No," he says simply.

She holds that stare but only for a moment, long enough to hear the scream bubble away into muted gurgling then nothing. Abnegation feels like cowardice but I doubt intervention would make a substantial difference. We are not executioners and we simply do not possess the fortitude to cull this field of rabid dogs. So from then on, Mysteel follows miserably, eyes averted from the atrocities that unfolds every step of the way.

We encounter no one else in this wasteland, nothing sentient at least. Every figure I sense is a phantasm, silhouetted against the dying light of this world. There are creatures though, strange amorphous things that whimper within the foetid shadows of ruins. The greater intelligences hiss at us from their cover. Their hunger is palpable, only kept at bay by the anathemas that have become our aegis. We avoid conflict, but even at a distance I can see these horrors are hosts to powerful plagues, their jaws pink with scurvy and their eyes half-closed from the close press of sores. The largest of them seem to loom like bloated mountains against fiery cauldrons of soul-fire.

I have lost all sense of time and distance. Such things are meaningless in a realm that remakes itself to torment us. All we have is the beacon and thankfully, that vague reference seems to loom larger as we trudge in its direction. Or perhaps that is wishful thinking. But the trek is wearying and I hobble behind my companions, inevitably lagging behind. Revan glances back at me from time to time but says nothing. At one point, Mysteel stops and offers to support me but I shake her off.

"I can walk," I growl with unnecessary vehemence. I can see my words sting Mysteel and I feel shame. Yet when she turns away, I involuntarily touch my stomach. The pain is intensifying and my brow feels feverish. The mild tingling I felt earlier has become jabbing needles in my skin. Things are _moving_ under it, incubating and waiting to bloom into horrid maturity. This must be how the changes start. It is the malignant powers of the Force worming itself into my bloodstream, chipping at my body and reforging it into something terrible.

 _ **He will betray you.**_

And there are the voices. They are astonishing – a nightmare-whisper wrenched into waking but given no form of its own. Many of them overlap, jostling with one another as if buried alive within some master rattle-bag of intelligence.

 _ **The Carrion Lord will bring agony to your galaxy. He is the Master of Lies and Deceit. You will be cast away for another, then another. His throne will be erected from the bones he betrays.**_

I know these denouements are meant to weaken my resolve, to break the cohesion of our motley crew. Knowing does not make it easier to resist however, and I remember the old resentments, the envy I always had for my brother.

With effort I wrench away from these dark thoughts and look to my companions. They do not seem as afflicted and that is worrying. Among the three of us, these...phenomenons seem to cause me the most distress. Perhaps it is because I am the most attuned to the emotions of others.

"We are being hunted."

"What?" My brother's voice startles me. I glance around for targets, but between the overlapping voices and bleeding Force, there is no source to pinpoint. "Are you sure? There are so many...distractions."

He nods. "Positive. I sensed their spoor when we left the city, and it has solidified ever since. Even with our blunted senses, their aura is palpable to me."

Mysteel glances around warily. "Should we hide?"

"Likely, they know the terrain better than we do. I do not want to be caged in a hole when they find us."

"Open ground then," I suggest. "Let them come to us."

Revan glances at my wound. My bandages are livid red and the flesh beneath has already become gangrenous. We have tried to staunch it, but even our combined healing expertise cannot make the blood clot.

Before Revan can pronounce his decision, Mysteel shakes his shoulder vigorously. "Rev, Shiny, look! Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

She points to the distance. A man stands in the middle of the bog. A _normal_ man, without the slightest hint of mutation from afar. He gazes off into the distance, unmoving, seemingly oblivious to the hellscape around him.

"A survivor. Still unchanged," I remark. "Mysteel, wait!"

Too late. Our sister steps off the path. I follow but Revan does not. Mysteel at least has the good sense to approach warily, looking for the slightest whiff of falsehood. But no, this one seems to be what he appears. An old man with wispy strands of hair clutching his mottled scalp and skin as weather beaten as gnarled root. His robes are as ancient as he is, fraying at the edges and bleached from exposure. The man glances at us. He appears distant, as if his vision is caught between different worlds.

"It's okay, we're not going to hurt you," Mysteel soothes, raising her hands. "We-"

"I know you," says the man hoarsely. His voice is as dry as parchment, drained of all hope or joy. It is the voice of one condemned. "You were there from the start."

Mysteel looks startled. "W-Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"I am...I was to bear witness."

"Bear witness to what?" I venture.

The man turns his glassy stare at me. There is something...familiar about him, a mournfulness in his demeanour that strikes a chord. "To everything that he did," comes the eventual reply. "For every victory, every atrocity he committed, I was there. And for a time, I even believed he could drag us out of the quagmire despite the odds, for his capabilities have always been unmatched. But in the end we failed him and because of our sins, he failed us."

Mysteel and I look at each other uneasily.

"I don't understand you, brother. Who failed you?"

The old man does not seem to hear me. "The Sith will win," he continues miserably. "We have let ourselves become so _weak_ while they have marshalled their strength. All our attention was put on petty squabbles so when they played their hand, we could not stop them from tearing us down. And though they will burn out their souls to remove us, they will be the victors, a final conclusion to the Great Game."

He lets out a sigh that sounds more like a death rattle. "But I should not be surprised. You only have to see how their emotions eclipse ours in the other-realm."

The voice is leaden with grief and I feel a pang of sympathy. "It's okay, brother," I assure him and place a hand on his shoulder. "What you saw were only visions. We will-"

The man lurches, surprisingly quick. He grabs one of the anathema shards buckled to my belt and pushes me away. Mysteel tenses for an attack but he is backing away, his stolen weapon pressed against his _own_ throat.

"There is no victory, only different kinds of defeat. Tell him that." For the first time, he glances at Revan. He watches us at a distance, heavy cowl rendering his expression unreadable. The man averts his gaze almost immediately and in that instance, I sense the most profound regret. "And tell him...to forgive me."

"Wait!" Mysteel shouts.

The anathema rips his neck open. The exit wound gushes blood and we are drenched in fountains of it. The man collapses. His body immediately begins decomposing, turning to ash before our eyes. His blood does not.

Mysteel trembles, her face spattered with dark viscera. "What...what the hell just happened?"

I grasp for words of reassurance but there is no solace to give her.

"Every step, a new horror," I mutter.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _?_

We reach another bog, but unlike any I have ever seen. Its liquid is a sickly yellow slime, a bubbling primordial soup that stretches on and on. Strange landmasses jut out from all the putrescence. They never seem still, shifting and shuffling their tantalizing forms.

"What in the-"

To my horrid fascination, I realize they _are_ bodies. Mounds of flesh pressed together in lurid embraces, slithering slowly, engaging in some perverse form of copulation. Some are almost human shaped, with two legs and two arms, and the head they were born with. Most are broken things, resembling nothing but an amalgamation of body parts that a child tried to shove together. I try not to shudder as we walk between these morasses of quivering flesh, their bodies fused with the writhing arms and limbs of others, until all that remains is a half-glimpsed face. I risk a glance and see that the faces gape stupidly as we pass. A vestigial recognition response making their jaws twitch as they rut in a pit of their own filth.

"Don't look," Revan orders sternly. I tear my gaze away and resume shuffling with some effort but it is getting harder to ignore my surrounding. Choirs of new voices crowd my thoughts, whispers of the night that only dared be uttered alone. The cries of ecstasy between lovers, the scream of anguish from a murderer's blade. If only there was some-

" **Exon."**

I pause at the sound of my name. That voice..I know that voice! It is one I have yearned for, a sensual whisper she only uses under the bed sheets. So against my better judgement I turn and amid the smoke and filth, a body emerges, pale and vivid.

"Celeste?" I gasp.

My lover smiles. It is her, as real and perfect as in my dreams. She is naked, moisture dripping from her porcelain skin and pooling between her breasts. Her lips are parted in a sensual gasp, aching with desire.

 _ **"You have come to the end. Bled and sacrificed more than the Order can ever demand of your. It is time to and take your reward."**_

She extends her hand.

 _ **"Come Exon. Come join me in bliss."**_

My mind is cloudy. Her scent is intoxicating, a sensual musk that prickles my skin like a lover's touch and which masks the coppery taste building in my mouth. Unbidden, images of carnal pleasures swim past me, acts of depravity my deepest subconscious wished to enact on her and which I shamefully buried.

 _ **You can have it. You can have it all. All you have to do is submit.**_

Force I wanted her, more than anything, I wanted to loosen my inhibitions and give myself to this perfect creature for all eternity. To fuse our souls together, and do all the things that the Order denied us, it would be transcendent.

I begin raising my own hand.

"Brother! What are you doing?"

The voice, _his_ voice snaps me out of my torpor. During my trance, I have strayed far from the path and am now waist deep in the filthy bile. Consternation is etched across Revan's face. Behind me, I can hear Celeste hissing, a sound that sends shivers down my spine. "I-"

"This is the test, brother!" he shouts. "Do not let these Force mirages ensnare you! Look!"

He points to the remaining anathema belted to my thigh. Celeste's hand is near it, stroking my leg…but it is not her hand. Now I see a slimy tentacle burred with quills and covered with blinking eyes. It caresses my skin, leaving trails of black puss. I recoil in horror.

 _ **"Do not listen to the Carrion Lord. Take your-"**_

My roar echoes throughout the swamp as I plunge the anathema into Celeste's chest. Black blood spurts from her chest and she screams. My condemnation is louder and I rip the shard from collarbone to waist.

"Get out of my head," I snarl.

Celeste staggers back but she isn't dying. She is dividing along the line of the blade wound. The thing aping my lover splits from hip to the throat. Then her skull parts too in a vertical line, like a pea-pod dividing. Flesh tears and shreds apart like fibrous matter. The anathema, unseated, falls onto the bloody earth.

I stare at the thing in horror, barely aware that my companions are pulling me back. Celeste is on her knees now, opened from the waist like a bloody flower. Sprouting limbs turn black and scaly. They grow bristles and thorns, stretch out like the legs of a giant arachnid. Scorpion tails twist and thrash like a nightmare wreath as they grow out of the open ribs. Stings glitter like knives. She is still, somehow, laughing.

"What in the hells is that?" Mysteel gasps.

"Ignore it! Get to the other side!" Revan orders. The ground lurches suddenly, making us stagger. The entire swamp is shaking. Quivering in anger at our presumption. Corpse mounds shudder violently, sloshing viscous liquid off the quivering obscenities. Their strange droning intensifies, becoming a choir of gasps.

We are suddenly easy prey, hampered on all sides by the hundreds of deformed bodies. Without warning, mangled abortions surges from the flesh piles. They grab Mysteel's lekku, pulling violently. She stumbles backwards where a dozen more pink tentacles reach out. Dead bodies begin pulling at her clothes, clawing her arms and legs. Their moans become more urgent as she screams.

Revan blade whistles, ripping away the limbs and heads closest to our sister. I reach into the mess of roasting flesh and pull her free.

"Thanks," she gasps. "That...that was too close."

"Faster!" Revan urges.

Now the other chimeric abominations are rising up too. They limp towards us, moaning, reaching out to grab at our necks and drag us into the quagmire. This is bad. The crowds are almost inexhaustible, a half-living wave of insentient meat that clutches and throttles. We wave our anathemas, slashing wildly with them. Deformed heads reel shrieking and some puppets burst into flames at their proximity but the masses press on regardless. These monsters are fearless, impelled by a greater will than their dread of oblivion.

I feel a claw rake through robes. The cut is shallow, barely a scratch but my left shoulder suddenly becomes dead weight. Poison? I would not be surprised if the congealed filth under their nails acted as a paralytic.

Another webbed claw grabs my leg, making me stumble. Cursing, I pull myself up only to find myself surrounded by wights with rancid mouths full of half chewed meat. They grasp at me, and my blade shears off limbs with a vengeful, desperate fury. My counterattacks are clumsy though, weighed down by reflexes stunted before the skirmish even began. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping me upright.

I manage to slash away an outstretched hand, cleave off several heads in furious sweeps. The flesh horrors ignore my efforts, climbing over their fallen in an inexorable wave of slack faces crawling with maggots. My movements become more bogged down, snagged into a thickening slush of clutching fingers. I decimate five more vile creatures before wet things wrap around my arms and legs. That is how I am brought down. Roaring defiance. _Crushed_ as their combined weight drags me under the mire.

Even bereft of sight and sound, I struggle like a wild animal. My primal will to survive refuses to succumb to this injustice. It cannot end like this. I have a career. A woman. Then the last pockets of air leaves my lungs. The cold sensation of death that hounded us since arriving surges to embrace me. This is it. Mission failed.

The pressure subsides suddenly. I can move. My body bursts out from the foul liquid, raking in lungfuls of air. Dimly, I am aware of more mutilated bodies surrounding me, now twice dead. It is my brother. He is decimating the monstrosities with his brutal efficiency, buying precious seconds for me to find my footing. Mysteel is at his back, slashing and swiping the fleshy nightmares trying to flank us.

"Brother, can you fight?" He spares a microsecond to glance at me between strokes.

"Yes!" I growl, trying to stand. Then the pain shoots up my gut and I collapse to one knee. "Damn it all, no!"

Revan grabs the scruff of my robes. "Sister, withdraw. Back the way we came." he orders. Mysteel gives a tight nod, too focused on staying alive to correct him. My brother cleaves the nearest flesh-thing in two and begins dragging me behind like a discarded toy. Giant fetuses shamble towards us, barricading our path. Revan and Mysteel's blades rise and fall. It is impossible to miss. Each swing fells another foe, but always there are more. Force, it is like walking through tar. Worse, their movements have adopted a mania, like a dying man trying to crawling to water in a desert. Our advance becomes a crawl until the press of bodies becomes impenetrable. We can go no further.

Gurgled laughter hounds us. We glance back. The Celeste thing is still growing, peeling back the rest of its falsehood. Her backbone has sprouted tall like a calcified tree trunk, growing weird branches that look as if they are composed of arm bones. Her ribcage opens like skeletal wings. I see organs pulse and grow in them, smearing tissue and sinew across the reshaping skeleton.

Celeste new head buds and unfolds, slowly turning up from a bowed stance. Mouthparts chatter. Huge multi-faceted eyes twinkle and glitter, iridescent. An orifice blooms with jagged teeth. It grows obscenely large, wide enough to fit a bantha whole.

 _ **"You cannot deny me. I know the shape of your desires. The shameful things you want."**_

Its sibilant voice sends shivers up my spine. Fear is not a state I am accustomed to but at this moment, I can admit that it has found purchase. Revan glares at the abomination and points his blade at it. "I rescind my previous order. That is the locus holding this rabble together. Eliminate it."

"How?" I gasp.

"Do you still have the anathemas?"

I nod weakly, handing him the satchel. We retrieved many shards but only three functional grenades. Revan glances at Mysteel who dodges a shoulder charge from a corpulent humanoid before decapitating it with an elegant pirouette. Even in this muck, our sister is by far the most sure footed among us.

"Sister, can you get close to deliver this payload?" Mysteel sees his intent and gives a curt nod.

"I can damn well try!"

"Then run. Leave these cretins to me."

My brother lobs her a grenade while simultaneously severing the hand trying to strangle him. Mysteel catches it in mid leap. She somersaults and kicks off the nearest corpse, then leapfrogs over another. Legions of rotten hands reach out and try to snatch her, but our sister is too quick. She jumps over shoulders, grabs overhanging vines and propels herself closer to the Celeste thing.

The towering monstrosity shrieks as Mysteel lands fifty feet from her. The scream becomes a shockwave, kicking up torrents of filth. Mysteel cartwheels to the right, narrowly avoiding the barrage that rips her flesh puppets into thick bloody gobbets. Mysteel finishes her manoeuvre by whipping an anathema shard. One of Celeste's milky eyes bursts and she shrieks in agony.

"The mouth!" I shout. Around me, I can sense pale fingers squeezing my flesh and the foetid stench of decay grows more pungent. I do my best to ignore them, trusting my brother to hold them at bay. "Aim for the mouth!"

"I know! I only get one shot at this!" she retorts. The Celeste thing has sprouted several barbed tails and slashes them wildly, half blinded. Our sister dodges a wild cut, darts away from the savage follow thrust before ducking another decapitating strike. Mysteel grips a anathema spear in her left. She uses it to riposte an attack, slashing off a spindly appendage.

The behemoth screams and the sound is akin to a hundred baby wails crashing together. Black bile gushes from her wounds, intermingling with sickly white bubbles frothing from the bog. Enraged, Celeste's thicker root tentacles pound at Mysteel with earth shaking tremors, but our sister is always just out of reach. She darts between lumbering attacks like a vicious wasp, delivering vicious stings and slowly closes the distance to her true target.

A noxious cloud belches out of Celeste's giant maw. Mysteel is engulfed. She gags as the filthy fog burns her skin and clogs her lungs. For the first time, our sister mistimes a leap. Celeste snatches her by the waist with a writhing tentacle.

"Mysteel!" My dismay distracts my brother. He glances away from multiple opponents just in time to see Mysteel enveloped. The distraction costs him. Freakish claws and tentacles envelop his hands. Abominations with bulging cheeks vomit half digested body parts over his face. I can only watch in horror as my brother is dragged underwater a by a wall of quivering bodies.

Celeste's hateful laughter peels in my ears. I turn and see Mysteel squirming against constricting tentacles. The monstrosity lifts its prey high, dangling her above its slavering maw. She is toying with its food, squeezing its fear out. Savouring it. With a gasp, Mysteel manages to wrench her sword arm out. She slashes, severing the flesh clutching her. The she plummets into Celeste's giant maw just before its rotten teeth slam shut.

"No!" I roar and reach out, impotent, as if sheer defiance could alter Mysteel's horrific fate. Celeste emits a screech of triumph. It swivels, boring its vile gaze through me. I have never felt so vulnerable.

 _ **"Annoying cripple. This. Will. Hurt."**_

But then it shivers. The monster's fleshy appendages jerk erratically. Lissom skin bulges and pops out like a balloon, punctured by faint purple rays. Hundreds of eyes widen in sudden terror.

 _ **"No!"**_

When the body explodes, I am braced for it. The shockwave blooms with incandescent fury, incinerating the quivering monstrosities closest to it. Globules of corrupted meat spatter against my face before curling into blackened husks. The mutated freaks not caught in the blast radius simply collapse, flesh puppets cut from their strings.

I see bubbles forming where Revan fell. Then like a wraith, my brother rises slowly from the foetid bog, displacing piles of rotten meat. He coughs violently, vomiting mouthfuls of vile liquid.

"Are you all right, brother?" My voice is hoarse. Without the surge of adrenaline, I lack the strength to even move to his side.

Revan manages a weak nod. Wordlessly he picks me up, dragging me towards the centre of the destruction. Surrounded by a pile of guts and half eaten corpses is our sister. She is on her side, caught in her own fit of coughing. Revan reaches down and helps her up as well.

"Well done."

Mysteel takes the hand, groaning. Her golden sheen is gone, completely obscured by blood and digestive fluids. "Eww, I am not doing that again."

Her expression shifts to distress. "My clothes, I just bought these! The cleaners will never get this crap out of it." She sniffs. "Wait, is this actual crap? Dammit, I am literally getting shit on!"

"Forgive me, sister," I gasp over Revan's shoulder. "This is my fault. I should not have wandered off."

Our sister aborts her tirade and sighs. "It's okay, Shiny. We're all high as fuck out here." She gives me a curious look. "So, what did you see this time?"

I grimace and look away. "You don't want to know."

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _?_

Every step is agony. I can no longer walk and Revan is forced support me, one arm slung over his shoulder. In better times, I would not have countenanced this. But the embarrassment of being assisted like an invalid cannot compare to the pain flaring in my body. The flesh-change froths under my skin like sea foam. It will not be long now. Hateful voices hiss more urgently in my ears and the terrible heat in my blood spikes.

When he stops, I cannot tell how much time has passed. I open my bleary eyes and before me is an steep incline of rock, jagged and uncompromising. The wall rises up and up and it takes me a moment to realize we are at the base of a mountain.

"We made it," Mysteel breathes. "All that's left is to climb this bitch and we're home free."

If Revan shares her optimism, he does not show it. "I'll carry him," he declares and begins rummaging in his supplies for rope.

"Leave me," I grunt. "Better some of us reach the Keeper's sanctuary than none."

Revan ignores me. "Wait for us at the summit," he instructs Mysteel while binding my arms over his shoulder. "Don't wander off for any reason."

Mysteel casts a doubtful look over me. "Really? You're going to climb with a sack of bricks strapped to your back? No offence, Shiny."

"Don't worry. I've done this before. Go."

She gives a weak laugh. "Rev, I know you just want to look at my perfect ass while climbing. I don't mind, but don't get too distracted."

Our sister rubs my head for luck and gives me a sympathetic look. "Hang in there, sweetie."

With a wink she grabs a handhold and begins her ascent effortlessly, vaulting from foothold to foothold and disappears from view within moments. Revan starts his climb but he does not possess our sister's flawless dexterity so our progress is glacial, hampered infinitely more by my dead weight. Yet he bears the burden without complaint, pursuing the arduous task with the same measured focus he pursues all things.

I wish I could feel more gratitude for his efforts but all I feel is frustration. I cannot remember the last time I felt so helpless, being hauled around like a sack of potatoes. I am my brother's protector _dammit_ , not the other way around.

"You won't make it with me," I gasp after much silence. I wince with every sudden jolt of movement. The mountain seems keen to mock our efforts. Sharp edges bleeds my brother's hands for every inch of ground. The wind howls, flensing our torn robes and frequently upsetting his precarious grip. One misstep, one loose rock is all it takes to become wet smears.

"Just put me out of my misery."

"Shut up, Exon."

"Article 3 passage 7," I slur. "Never let compassion override practicality. When the upkeep of an asset outweighs their benefits, the commander must severe their losses lest their detrimental effects become compounded."

Revan slows momentarily and glances over his shoulder. "You read my book."

"Only the parts I didn't use for toilet paper," I chuckle wetly. "And I don't need to read a treatise to understand when something is a lost cause. So why-?"

"I am not your brother only when it is convenient," Revan cuts in. His voice is strained with the effort of hauling more than twice his body weight. My brother always had a cadaverous aspect, but now his face looks positively exhumed. "And I do not subscribe to the philosophies of our cosmetically challenged brethren."

"Who-?"

"The Sith."

"Hah, they are that," I laugh. The sound becomes a painful cough in my chest. The shuddering is so violent, Revan halts his ascent. It takes me a minute to compose myself.

"But this never ending war with them...it is futile." Blood drools from the sides of my mouth as I speak. "I have come to the conclusion that the spectre spoke true. The Sith will win this pointless war for they only have to wait for us to fail."

"That is your delirium talking," my brother abdomishes. "What did I tell you about listening to the lies of ghosts?"

"And yet the best lies have a kernel of truth." I murmur. "Everything succumbs to entropy in the end, just like these so called elder powers and we are so much less than them. Those brothers and sisters out there, I have no doubt they were great Knights before being dragged into this nightmare. The best of our breed who succumbed to their own worst qualities the end."

Another bloody cough escapes my lips. "And that...that is the point of the Keeper's trial I think, perhaps the secret Amarinthe tried to prevent us from learning. Our Order will fail, brother, just like so many of our brethren failed when the stakes were highest."

Revan is still for a long moment before wordlessly resuming the slow ascent. The winds howl louder now and it sounds so much like laughter. "Tell me Exon," Revan wheezes eventually. "if this outcome is so inevitable, why do the phantasms of this accursed realm spend so much effort trying to convince us of it?"

I pause. "To taunt us with the truth."

"Perhaps," he concedes. "But this is what I believe. They _fear_ us. They fear what would happen if we ever chose not to believe their stories, for they know we have the power to prove them wrong."

That takes me aback. "I never thought of it that way," I admit.

"We are free to choose, brother," Revan says more quietly, pushing against the currents with indomitable patience. "That is the purpose of this test. To pit our beliefs against the sirens of doom. Let these aberrations hurl their insults, their empty threats and temptations. I will treat all of it with the contempt that it deserves. And if what we endured is the worst these monsters can hurl at us then I pity them for I have yet to do mine. We shall show them the power of brotherhood, Exon. We shall show them the power of our faith."

I nod weakly. I do not know if I truly believe Revan's words, but to see his defiance in the face of such inescapable ruin is a victory in itself. After that, I try not to distract him and we ascend in silence, one rock at a time.

I shift in and out of consciousness and dream terrible things. In them, I see metal clad monsters killing on a burning world. To my horror, they are killing Jedi, laughing as they gun us down, taunt us as they flay the skin from our faces. I scream in rage at their atrocity, powerless to stop them as the shrieks of my kindred reach a crescendo. And behind the monsters, something towers over them greater than us all. It is...hell's teeth, that thing is-".

"We're here, brother."

My eyes snap open. Mysteel is waiting for us at the precipice. She extends a hand and pulls us over the final hurdle. Her expression is not reassuring.

"The Citadel?" I whisper.

"See for yourself," she replies grimly.

I look around blearily and what little hope I had gutters out in my chest. The reward for reaching this point is paltry, just another desolate cliff face. Eroded cairns form a jagged circle but they are barely more distinguishable than the wind blasted rocks surrounding us. I force myself to look past this disappointment and notice we are not standing on a plateau but upon the lip of a much larger pit. A pit large enough to swallow an entire starship.

"This isn't a mountain..." Mysteel mutters. "It's...it's a volcano."

She's right, partly. I do not believe the chasm we stand atop is a natural phenomenon, but the product of strange scientific manipulation. The pit itself seems bottomless but I can detect a murky green liquid bubbling at its deepest recesses. That is not what interests me though.

Seven thick bridges are level with us. They rim the circumference of this pit, meeting at the epicentre where I see a glass dish. The dish is massive, its size a match with the satellites orbiting the Thoneworld. And it is _this_ thing that swallows the light, gulping the raging torrent of power pouring from the heavens.

"How...how is it doing that?" I wonder aloud.

" _Why_ is it doing that?" Mysteel adds.

"Forwards," Revan says grimly.

We look at each other uncertain then approach the nearest bridge. Its construction is smooth, a slab of bony walkway jutting from beginning to end. There are no handrails but it looks solid and wide enough for two to walk abreast. With cautious steps my companions begin to cross. The air here is electric, positively saturated with Force overflow and each step closer to the centre feels like trying to approach a star.

"I can't...I can't go any further," I pant.

"Just a bit further, sweetie," Mysteel soothes quietly. "We've got to get a better look."

By the time they stop, the pressure becomes stifling. Any closer and I fear our bodies will be incinerated. Tears flow from my weary eyes but I blink them away. When I summon up the strength to open them though, I bear witness to something I cannot comprehend.

"What fresh hell is this?" I mutter.

We are within meters from the so called beacon. Now I can see it is not made of _actual_ light but a riot of glowing phantasms. There are murky faces stretched taught over spectral skin, their expressions a rictus of agony. Echoes of the Force I think, the last imprint of a warrior's psyche before it dissolves back into the Well of Infinity. We are taught about this phenomena. I have even witnessed such during my descent into the Halls of Shame, but never in such numbers. Never have I seen a literal sea of lost souls.

They plunge, crashing and dissolving and reforming in an endless storm. Shrieking ghosts clash in an endless cacophony, adding to the torment of those lost and forsaken. And amid this riot, shapes rupture cloud-bursts of other screams that haven't yet been cried aloud. They coalesce, forming scenes, _moments_ of events that invoke stirrings of memory and yet feel equally unfamiliar, like reliving snippets of life from another person.

"It can't be..." I whisper, too quietly for my companions to hear.

But it is. Before me, I see a scene that has been recorded and broadcast to the entire galaxy repeatedly. Except this projection is much more vivid, like stepping back in time to bear witness into fate's weft itself.

It is Exar Kun, delivering his infamous speech in the Senate, the one that forever cursed our Order to infamy. In person, he looks demonic and his spiteful words against the Republic drum ire from everyone witnessing it including mine.

The image changes, and I am transported to another scene. Here, I see a bald man being struck by a masked revenant. The man collapses at the revenant's feet, a smoking ruin where his jaw used to be. Even writhing on the floor, I can make out a strange tattoo imprinted on his forehead.

My surroundings change to the outdoors on some strange alien world. The revenant appears again, or is it the same? His aura feels altered. This time he is front of a horrified Twi'lek. She is screaming, tears running down her cheeks as the revenant beheads a Wookie.

The scene shifts again. This time I am in a dark throne room where a blonde youth does battle with a black armoured knight. A Dark Lord watches the duel from his throne, yellow eyes glinting under a backdrop of burning starships. Then the images changes again, now too quick to follow. On and on and on. Snippets of history clashing with moments that haven't yet happened, that won't happen for half an eternity. Grinding against events that took place back when the earliest creatures exhaled water and – for the very first time – took in lungfuls of air.

Despite all the warnings, all my weariness, I stare enraptured. It has never been more obvious that the frail laws of physics which so coldly govern our material universe have no power here, those binding codes fracture into their separate fictions. Here, time itself goes to die.

My companions do not seem see the unfolding portents in front of us. They do not share my wonder and horror. "You think this is some sort of test?" Mysteel wonders. "Do the Keepers want us to burn ourselves on this...thing to get further?"

"No," Revan says flatly. He turns away. "Whatever it is, I'm quite convinced this isn't the beacon we're looking for."

"Well that's it then," Mysteel sighs and sags to the ground. "We came all this damn way and there is no Citadel in sight. What a waste."

Her words jar me back to the present. The truth is bitter but this has all been for naught. All the injuries suffered to reach this desolate rock was merely another stepping stone to our demise.

"Amarinthe gave us false hope," I rasp and tear my gaze away from the mirage of images. I would punch the nearest cairn in frustration, but I cannot even lift my arms. "We will die in these wastes, chased by ghosts of our own devising."

Revan ignores our dismay. He is staring back out to the horizon, studying something intently.

"I have been a fool," he says suddenly.

"Well I didn't want to say anything but yeah... trying to find a place called the _Impossible Citadel_ was a shit idea," Mysteel grumbles, flicking dirt off her clothes.

"I missed a sale today and now I'm going to die a virgin. Unless..." she gives Revan a hopeful look.

"That is not what I meant," Revan says flatly. He turns to address both of us. "We have been approaching this the wrong way."

"What other way is there?" I cough. "Amarinthe told us to follow the light. We did, and all we have to show for it are a parade of failures."

"We have been using our own realm as a frame of reference." Revan gestures around us. "But this place...it is a hell scape of allegory and dreams. We must use _their_ rules and revise what constitutes a beacon here."

Mysteel scrunches up his face in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Amarinthe said we would be like wayfarers at sea," Revan explains. "In her analogy, the beacon she spoke of would be a lighthouse. And what is the purpose of a lighthouse?"

"To guide ships," she offers.

"Yes, but it also _prevents_ them from crashing onto its shores. It tells them to steer clear."

Mysteel and I glance at each other, confused. "Are you saying... these horrors we encounter are ships?" I venture.

"Figuratively, brother. _Figuratively_ ," Revan says impatiently. "And in the same vein, the lighthouse will be something they _avoid_."

Understanding slowly dawns upon us. "Oh like these...what did you call them. Anathemas?" Mysteel asks.

"Precisely." Revan favours her with a nod. "Every species can boast fables of their earliest ancestors making fire to keep the night terrors at bay. These anathemas push back the dark so it stands to reason that the Keeper's fortress would reside within the greatest locus of null space."

He turns back to stare at the horizon. "So where then, is the place these monsters fear the most? Where is the strongest source of this oblivion effect?"

"There," I croak, raising a trembling hand over his shoulder. "I have sensed its emptiness since we arrived, brother. We all do. It is antithesis of existence and it frightens me still."

Revan nods. "Then that is where we must go."

Mysteel opens her mouth, probably to complain but stops. Reality is changing, becoming thicker with Force overspill. I feel my brother's shoulders tense at the sound of strange droning, like the herald of a insect swarm.

"Shit, did we trigger an alarm?" Mysteel wonders.

There is a sudden shift in the air, a displacement of pressure that makes my ears pop. At first I cannot tell what happened, but then I see it. A...slit, a slit is opening in midair across the very bridge we're standing upon. It resembles a wound, like somebody is cutting into the very fabric of space-time. From this spatial lip, a giant boot appears, then another. Five giant figures emerge from the disintegrating tear in reality, their silhouettes smoking with Force residue.

"What the hell?"

The newcomers are immediately recognizable as Massassi. I have never laid eyes upon a real one, but their red skin and distinct mouth tendrils are well documented. The Massassi are riding deformed albino carcasses, naked hairless things knuckling on all fours. I see spine growth on their backs, clinging to outsize bones. The rest of their bodies are riddled with parasites and black clouds of flies hover around their tumour riddled faces. They snarl at us, fanged mouths stretched into impossible slacked jawed lengths.

The central Massassi breaks from the ranks. This one rides no mount yet towers over the rest. He a titan, a cadaver of truly monstrous proportions and repugnant in its majesty. Every movement carries apocalyptic menace, and the spirits of this world recoil from its path. He stops fifty paces from us. A red hot sword rests on his massive shoulder, more cleaver than blade.

 _ **"Yourselves. Identify intruders."**_

His words are not Galactic Standard, yet somehow my mind processes them. He is speaking at a fundamental level, a communication understandable to all sentient beings like weeping, rage or laughter. The voice rumbles with a cadence from another age and has become as alien as his speech patterns. When he breathes, yellow-green steam vents from his blood specked mouth. Revan steps forward, one hand resting on his weapon.

"Whose territory are we intruding on?" he asks.

The Massassi grunts, his seamy eyes narrowing from under the deep shadow of its threadbare cowl. His armour is indescribably ancient, encrusted with weight of aeons. Fleshy barnacles sprout from its cracks while entire sections have warped and fused to become true flesh. The blood, the Force, the deaths of this world – all of it has magnified and redounded upon this engorged vessel.

 _ **"Despoil realm your kind this presence with."**_

"Our kind?" Mysteel echoes confused.

 _ **"Flesh. Mortal shells you free not have. To trod on is forbidden sacred ground."**_

The air crackles. I see giant flies buzz closely around him, mobbing him, crawling over its instruments. He swats a few away, letting their fat bodies splat against the ground.

 _ **"Them Queen to the bring. Judge let her their punishment."**_

At the command, his riders whip their beast mounts. They howl and charge across the bridge, knuckling on all fours. Bones jut out from their mutilated backs and through entrails exposed bellies, yet these horrors manage to lumber towards us with astonishing swiftness.

Mysteel throws her spear at the lead Massassi. Her aim is perfect and the missile tears through the rider's throat. Dead hands swerves the mount violently and both careen off the narrow walkway.

A second rider charges her but I have no time to watch. The Massassi riding the largest beast is hurtling towards us. It has three faces, each an overlapping horror of black eyes and lolling tongues.

Revan shoves us away at the last second. He thrusts as the beast charges by and the weapon bursts an eye. The beast screams and it hurtles blindly towards the giant beacon. Rider and beast are suddenly immolated by greenish flames as they pass through the threshold. They scream as the fury of congealed spirits render their bodies to ash.

We roll awkwardly to the ground. The impact tears open my wound and I cannot stifle my anguish. Revan tries to prop me on a nearby rock.

"Stay here, brother. We-"

A fanged spear tip bursts through his left shoulder. A length of rope juts from his shoulder back to the Massassi holding the weapon. Harpoon. The rider turns his mount and my brother is ripped away, dragged bodily through the dirt. His captor drags him close and tries to ensnare him in a barbed net. Grunting, my brother frees his sword and severs the rope with a savage swipe. He rolls away from the netting and surges to his feet. The Massassi brings his hound close. It gnashes and rakes furiously with giant claws. Revan can barely avoid disembowelment, swiping and dodging just out of reach.

In the microseconds between swipes, Revan finds his opening. A well timed thrust ends with his lightsaber through the hound's gullet. The mount rears, throwing off its rider. Then it clamps down on Revan's arm, nearly ripping it off. My brother grits his teeth and rummages violently until his blade cuts through something vital. The beast collapses on top of my brother, limbs twitching. Revan curses, heaving with all his might, trying to throw the dead weight off.

The displaced Massassi has regained his footing. He surges upon Revan with a wickedly curved blade, intent on the kill. There is little my brother can do to avoid the thrust.

Mysteel's lightsaber shrieks towards them, spinning like a golden disc. The Massassi swerves aside at the last moment, narrowly dodging the projectile. Mysteel takes full advantage of the distraction, leaping and tackling the Massassi to the ground. They wrestle violently before our sister manages to roll on top of the Massassi. Her energized gauntlet blade flares and jabs down separating head from neck. Panting, Mysteel wipes Massassi blood from her face.

"My thanks, sister," Revan says breathlessly.

"Don't call me - ugh, nevermind." Mysteel takes Revan's hand. Together they manage to drag him out from the crushing weight. They barely have time to rip the harpoon from his shoulder before the ground starts shuddering. An earthquake? My confusion is broken when I see the giant shadow eclipse them suddenly and totally.

"Brother! Sister! Look-"

They turn surprised, in time to see a massive blade whistling towards them. The rune-marked metal ignites inches from their faces. Its concussive force sends them flying across the blood-soaked sky. They crash solidly, tumbling several meters across the bridge before slumping precariously close to the edge.

A massive shape lopes across the tortured rockrete, its blazing red eyes fixed on its prey. The leader has held back until this moment, silent as a statue. Now it is an unstoppable force. This giant is not fast, but when it moves, it feels like the world itself shudders in awe.

Mysteel is motionless, an ugly gash bleeding over her perfect staggers upright, knees trembling. The Massassi advances on him with deliberate certainty, hand raised. By the time he has entered melee range, the cleaver has flown back into his meaty grip.

They rock and swing around one another. The Massassi is far greater in stature, a swollen creature of this realm, and Revan has to push himself to the limit just to make contact. My brother is already wounded from many earlier fights – I can see the infections pulsing their way around his body – but somehow it doesn't slow him.

One strike cracks the giant blade away, and my brother powers into the opened gap, landing a fist on the Massassi's face. Revan jabs another wound into its veined thigh before darting away from the counter swing. As the blade screams past him, Revan spins, slamming his lightsaber down against a gap between its armor. The impact is horrific, jarring arms to the bone and yet the blade barely scratches its flesh.

The Massassi shrugs his massive shoulders. He backhands my brother, a blow that crushes him into the floor. When the giant leans down to pick him up, Revan kicks between its legs. His opponent stumbles, just enough for him to roll away. The Massassi turns ponderously and presses his assault with metronome rhythm.

None of its attacks are quick or furious, only inevitable. But each pendulous swing of the enemy's blade is more than lethal, unleashing forces that cracks the rock they stand upon and against which my brother's protection is as potent as parchment.

I can see that Revan is exhausted. He has already killed so many, fighting for hours, pouring all his defiance out at this wretched world. His anathemas has been rendered defunct, his robes is pitted and broken. Still he fights, keeping himself erect, maintaining that rolling, menacing gait that is the natural consequence of so much remorseless physical conditioning.

But he cannot win. Despite all his efforts, all his savagery, this thing has weathered it with soul sucking indifference. It feels like assaulting a living mountain, albeit one that gyrated, thundered and brought down the fires of hell. At that moment cold certainty descends upon me. If any of us were to have a chance of survival, one of us would need to dare the impossible.

I stand, and nausea threatens to consume me. Bones grind and my flesh screams in protest, but I do not let their weakness stop me. With pure will, I force my body towards the duel step by agonizing step, gaining speed.

 _Let them do their worst. For I will do mine._

Revan hangs precariously at the threshold again, hammered to one knee. One more swing and the titan will push him into the steaming fluids.

I crash into the Massassi as he raises his cleaver. The brute outweighs me handsomely but somehow my momentum knocks him several steps back. He grunts, surprised.

"Brother!" I shout, heaving the Massassi back another step. "It is up to you now. Take our sister and go!"

Revan reply is lost amidst screeching phantoms and the grunts of our struggle. The plateau was slippery with blood by then, dragged down from the unholy rain, and it fizzes and pops against the ever-kindled flame. I use that to my advantage, pushing, letting my opponent slide ever closer to the chasm lip. The Massassi rumbles. He drops his weapon and pummels me with rusty gauntlets. A fist shatters my shoulder blade. Another breaks my cheek. The world spins around me, and sharp pain spears up my right arm as something new snaps. I can feel blood gushing in my mouth now. The brute is killing me faster than I can push.

I don't care.

With a roar, with every fibre of my being, I heave. A sudden gust of energy explodes from me, a hidden iota of Force I didn't even know I possessed. For a moment, even this juggernaut is taken aback. It loses its footing and tilts with the slow timbre of a mammoth tree being felled.

"Exon!"

Revan's voice is cut off by the howling winds, by the infernal choir witnessing our plummet down the chasm. Something beyond exults, ready to welcome another victim into its cloying embrace.

Yet despite their mockery, despite all the accumulated anguish, my soul finally knows peace. My last thought is of a duty fulfilled as I am finally swallowed by the mauling darkness.

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _First off, sorry about the long wait. I've been swamped with other things. And this chapter also had a lot of different components and concepts I'm not used to writing about. But I always knew this story would take time, and hey, it's all about the journey not the destination. I'm not in any hurry to finish it, but to enjoy the ride. I hope the readers do to and hopefully the length of the chapter was worth it._

 _Speaking of the chapter length, I am trying to keep this sojourn into crazy town relatively short in terms of number of chapters. While it is critical to the greater narrative, the Triumph is where the meat of the story will be and I want to get back to that._

 _I've posted new stuff on my deviantart page (rogermein1 . deviantart . com). Feel free to check it out!_

 _As always again, thanks to all my readers. Any feedback would be great. As always, please spread the word if you like the story so far. Thanks!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **RevJohn1171**_ _chapter 18 . Feb 10, 2019_

 _Thanks! It was important to establish that Revan and co are in mortal peril. And what better way to show it with grizzly deaths! Hope this chapter was more messed up than you can imagine =)._

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 18 . Jan 31, 2019_

 _Thanks as always! Really glad to have you reading this story._

 _ **r4PT0rian**_ _chapter 10 . Jan 24, 2019_

 _Glad you liked the chapter! Hope this one lived up to your expectations. Things are only getting worse for Revan and co, aren't they =)?_


	27. Chapter 20 - The Nightmare to Come Pt3

_**Chapter 20**_

 _ **Time check:**_ _?_

I am not dead. Or if I am, death is a disappointment for the old burdens remain. I draw breath. I feel pain. A cheap afterlife if I do say so myself.

There are small mercies as I return to the world of the senses. The white hot agony in my gut has diminished to a painful throb. To my surprise, the wound has been seared shut. Crude sutures have been stitched around it to prevent major bleeding though blood and pus still dribbles out. The reprieve is welcome but I dread what it portends.

My captors want me alive but weak.

I glance at my surroundings. A cell. One of many. Some have prisoners like me. Humans. Bothans, but mostly species I do not recognize. They are sick, very badly sick. Most are carrying obviously terminal diseases, and their bodies are falling apart, but they do not look afraid. I realize it has been a very long time since I have been among people who do not possess any fear. They seem immune to the horror of their bodies, for their souls have long been bleached dry.

This place is quiet, dripping with darkness, its blurred outline a haze of vegetative greens and greys. All around them machinery fizzes and blinks as if electrified, and strange shapes materialize in gasps of smoke, short-lived and misshapen. It smells rich here, like old soil. The air is hot but thin and I realize this prison must be entombed deep within the planet's crust. I see pale worms wriggling through the mouldering metal work, each barely longer than my fingernail. They glow. They have many eyes. And long teeth. Why does a worm need teeth?

Shackles cover my hands and my right foot is chained to the floor. They are all crusted with the patina of age, thickened and fleshed, scabbed with boils and laced with glistening strings of pulled marrow. I strain at my bonds, grunting in an effort to break them. Nothing. Either I am still too weak, or the degradation is merely surface deep.

"Who...who is there?"

The voice startles me. It is a raspy, wheezing sound, barely more than a groan.

I shift left, towards a caged prisoner not quite dead and recoil. Before me is a man in faded crimson, shredded and soaked in old blood. His skin is pale like a fish's belly and criss crossed with dark veins. The thing's face was covered in blood, his cheekbones cracked. Its lower jaw looked to have been entirely excised, replaced with a mask of spattered steel connected to ripped cheek-flesh. The skull was bald and tattooed with arcane symbols that reeks of forbidden lore. Eyes like purple bruises stare out from a sunken face, bloodshot and streaked with black bile. I instantly recognize these symptoms of Force corruption, the channeled rage that turns flesh rancid. He should not be able to speak, but somehow words escape his ruined oesophagus.

"You...you are _his_ aren't you?" it husks, staring at me.

"I don't belong to anyone." I growl.

"Ha, everyone wants to believe that," The wretch chuckles wetly. "But you were his champion, his _Malak_ were you not? Do not deny it, I can sense my killer's imprint on your soul."

My blood runs cold. Malak. Only my brother has ever honoured me with that title. How could this wretch know the term?

I force down my revulsion and stare hard at the other prisoner. Though the lighting is poor, the lack of a jaw triggers recognition. He is the man I saw struck down in the visions. The same wretch grovelling at the feet of the revenant. Yet the wounds he sustained then cannot account for his current degradation. I wonder how much time has passed for him to become...this.

"Who are you?"

The maimed man seems distracted. His eyes do not focus, flitting between events only he can see. "Your replacement. Or are you mine? It is...so hard to tell. Time...time has no meaning here."

He shakes his head as if fighting against the torpor that pervades everything. I can see fleeting lucidity in his expression.

"But if you are here, it can only mean one thing. You failed...like me."

"Failed?" I echo. "At what?"

"To _usurp_ him." The thing coughs violently, old pains wracking his ruined body. Wet fluid leaks out of the hole in his face. "Like you, I was his...shadow. Like you, I wanted what he had but did not have the merit to take. So I betrayed him."

He sags in his chains, staring ruefully at his surroundings.

"Look how well that turned out for both of us."

My eyes narrow. I should ignore these ramblings. The notion of betraying my brother is ludicrous. This is just another madman, one of the countless broken by this hellish domain. And yet, he knows. He knows the jealousy I harbour, smothered but always present. _Could_ he have known Revan? Could he know what the fates have in store? I want to know. Against my better judgement, I probe deeper.

"What did you do?"

The man grimaces, and his mutilations make the expression almost comical. "You want me to say it? You want me to describe how I stabbed him in the back?"

He leans back and sighs. More bile leaks out of his gaping abyss and the manacles on his wrists clink. "He was on a ship and I was on another. On the cusp of his victory, I had my cannons end him from afar."

"A coward's trick," I growl and the man gives another wet laugh.

"In life, I killed everyone who said the same but it never stopped it from being true. Yes, I was too weak to perform the deed myself. But that... _that_ should have been the end of him. Instead fate continued to mock me."

He clenches his fists.

"When the failure became clear, my fear was constant for I knew I was living on borrowed time. And even in his diminished state, even when I was engorged with the souls of others, I could not end my former brother. Such is the price of treachery."

Mixed within his misery, I sense genuine regret. A single tear runs down his jaundiced right eye. "I asked him before I died...how things would have changed if our roles were reversed. But deep down, I knew the truth. I could never exact revenge because I do not have his genius. His adaptability."

"That we can agree on," I mumble. At that the husk assumes a thoughtful expression.

"Perhaps he knew...he _knew_ I would betray him and engineered everything accordingly. I would not put it past him for even _I_ do not know how far back his schemes go. No one had the full measure of him. Even when we kneeled before one who called himself Emperor, I doubted his shift in allegiance for the Nameless One has secrets within secrets."

I open my mouth to ask more but the sound of footsteps catches my attention. Hooded menials materialize from the dark, cloaked in dark grey. I barely notice them for a greater power towers over us all. The Massassi stares at me, his eyes the colour of clotted blood. My giant captor looks completely untouched by our previous bout and in the gloom, I can see that the gaps in his armour glow with a strange unlight.

 _ **"Him. Bring."**_ he orders, pointing at me with his massive gauntlet.

The hunched slaves shuffle forward. The air is unbearably hot but their hands are colder than ice. They unchain my tether and haul me out of the cage. Before leaving, I spare one last look at the man who confessed his sins to me.

He is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

 _ **Time check:**_ _?_

From the moment I was dragged into the Keeper's realm, I wondered what spawned the horrors that plagued it. Now that the answer is around me, I no longer wish to know.

I no longer wish to know anything.

The Massassi herds me through a living nightmare, a city shaped from a kind of damnation no warped mind on Korriban could conceive. The ground we trod upon is moist flesh. _Flesh_. It shivers when touched, as if physical contact pained it. The buildings are worst. Most of them are spires, jutting out from the ground like gaping wounds and swaying precariously. But what horrifies me is that they are made from living bodies. Yes, _living_ bodies. Maws gusting mephitic gases replaced vents. Wet orifices take the place of doors. And all of this is packed together like bricks and glued by congealed blood, a mass of inhumanity that groans and wails as we pass by. Force take me, how are they still _alive_?

We are always descending but this sprawling necropolis is not on a uniform level. It is splintered into giant platforms, fractured landmasses that hover in midair. The insanity of this architecture is appalling. I can look up and see part of the bone city hanging upside down, its occupants swarming like a horde of ants. Gravity has no meaning beyond the immediate for there is no up and there is no centre. Connecting these islands are calcified bone bridges. They sweep up between these platforms, weaving, intertwining like living arteries. Some lead to great shimmering portals, some to stacks of slave pens and others to chasms where not even light can escape.

It reeks of blood in this place, perpetuated by spiralling chimneys that vomit crimson smoke from every wet hole. They waft up, forming gravid clouds that swim across the bio-industrial hells cape. Then it comes raining back in thick torrents, cascading up or down the steep spire sides and washing filth back down to the base of the chasms.

The strangest phenomenon are those portals. They resemble shimmering red whirlpools, like the wound in reality that my captor first appeared from. Some seem to be artificial in nature, sustained and closed by strange crackling machinery. Others rip randomly into existence around us, hovering briefly in midair to vomit out piles of bodies before vanishing.

This entire tumult chills my soul but the worst are those damnable Force apparitions. They are everywhere, a cavalcade of malicious intelligences roaming across the streets, clotting the air with their repugnance. I see giant phantasmal birds flap in all directions, screeching in strange tongues. Naked hermaphrodites with crab claws cavort around us, whispering forbidden delights in my ear. Tentacles the size of city blocks gouge up from the deeps, each riddled with twitching eyes.

This is it. This is the source of the planet's infection. On the surface, the malignant growth was limited, but down here at the world's heart, the corruption is complete like the last stages of cancer fully subverting the organs of its host body.

Even as I shuffle through each unfolding horror, mouth agape, I can hear the boom and roll of drums, the braying of indentured herds, the background drone of a quadrillion flies. The streets are overcrowded with people, constantly spilling out from those giant tears in reality. Most are robed in heavy grey roughspun like my gaolers, their faces hidden by heavy cowls. Those I spy unhooded have slovenly faces, their skin a landscape of tattooed numerology. They resemble identity codes, property.

I estimate thousands of branded slaves probably tens of thousands. Everyone moves with a heavy torpor, trudging from one bizarre task to the next. As far as I can tell, few of them ever speak to one another. They seem strangely content, stumbling across the streets. Some have duties, most do not appear to. The Force abominations preside over a listless bounty of souls yet strangely, do not prey on them. Somehow, they understand and respect that these slaves are a commodity to be protected.

But there are others like me. Fresh meat taken from Force knows where without the brands of property. They drop from giant swirling vortexes, piling up in stacks of screaming meat, like coins waiting to be counted. Processions are herded in all directions, led by strange aliens who glow with the same ethereal light of my Massassi gaoler. This city is careless with new arrivals and I quickly realize we are not protected. From time to time, the living nightmares snatch up unmarked as they are force marched along the winding roads. Some are sliced into wet chunks by roaming hags with crab claws. Some are tossed up and ripped apart by spectral jackals or devoured by giant leviathans with too many heads. Gurgles intermingle with the laughter of thirsting nightmares and it is all I can do not to shout in outrage.

I turn to a new chorus of screams. On my right is a platform, suspended over a giant pool of oily red. Hundreds of freshly captured prisoners are being herded towards the ledge, pushed and cajoled by gaolers with cattle prods and spears. As if sensing heightened terror, a gigantic monstrosity rises from its depths. It is a huge worm, larger than a grown Rancor, wider than even the Sarlac pits of Tatooine. The worm's mouth is filled with an absurd amount of teeth, like the concentric circles of a blender. One by one, bodies fall off screaming, then dozens at a time, before being shredded by giant gnashing teeth.

As the worm feasts, its muscles contract. Random orifices along its flank squirt out a half digested slurry of meat and body parts, pouring it back into the pool it wallows in. This excrement is sucked up by giant buzzing insects with glowing proboscises. With bulging sacs they swoop up in different directions, spraying the filth across streets and spires. Why are they doing this? Are they...are they _feeding_ the city?

Now I begin to feel fear. Real fear. Over my career I have witnessed so many depravities that the toll had shriven my body and withered my soul. But never as an adult had I ever truly felt soul-deep fear. Yet here it was, creeping on me like a thief, sliding past all guards set against it and hastening my mortal weaknesses.

"Every step, a new horror," I mutter, now an unconscious mantra for this place.

'You are afraid,' remarks one of the slaves. I turn to the speaker sharply. Until now, I had thought them all deaf and mute automatons. This one looks human. He even has the proper number of eyes and fingers, although his skin is matted bloody grime and his movements carry the same lethargy that infects everything.

'There is nothing to fear,' I growl, trying to shake the sensation off.

'That is not true at all,' he replies. 'Do not attempt to fight it. Believe me, it will be better for you.'

"No sane mane would submit."

"My companions tried. They are all dead or worse. I was the only one who accepted the status quo. Courage is meaningless here, _brother_."

The word makes my stomach churn. Before this pilgrimage, I would have been angered seeing my brethren submitting to these horrors. Now, having witnessed the weakness in our hearts, this fate merely seems inevitable.

"Which enclave were you from?"

The man shrugs.

"What is your name?"

"I forget. That life hardly matters now."

 _Craven._ "Why do this?" I demand. "Are you all mad? Or just sadistic?"

At this the man smiles, a sick grin that exposed gums as red as heartsblood and black holes where the teeth should have been.

"Ah, that old pride. You play the role of a quintessential Knight well." He sighs. "But then, I was like that too once, with such a sense of...entitlement. I was so _certain_ that my contributions left a unique mark in the timeline. It is only when you gain a wider perspective that you realize everything done has been done countless times and we are no more valuable than the cattle slaughtered for consumption.

"I don't understand."

"Simply put, we are the commodity of this realm."

"People?"

"Souls." Craven taps his chest. "This is what is fought over here. Not coin, not worlds. Souls. The Force is within us all, for we are vessels for rage, fear and lust. And the greater powers covet what our souls have to offer. The strongest become stronger by them, the weaker are consumed.

And there it is. This realm of flesh and bone is a temple, a temple dedicated to the basest emotions in existence. Every scream is a prayer of agony. Every crack of bone a benediction to hatred. The intelligences _nourishes_ themselves off of our suffering, the same way a normal man needs to eat. And there was so much to feed on. The endemic terror, the misery and suffering...it all intermingled to form an aphrodisiac more potent than any narcotic. Even the bluntest mortal could sense the wrongness and to me it felt like drowning in a an infinite pit of despair.

And yet, these fiends are only a microcosm of a greater ecosystem. With lurching horror, I realize the entire _city_ is a living beast tended by creatures slaved to its perverse will. The ground has respiration, it has circulation. The spires have whims and it has moods. If it turns against you, you find streets suddenly choked with torn corpses and boiling pits of run-off blood. Prisoners go missing with appalling frequency from inattention. Sometimes they are discovered much later – bits of clothing, stains on the ground, a faint smell of satisfied ingestion.

"This is insane."

Craven give a phlegm filled chuckle. "I've heard that so many times," he replies. "It only has meaning if you can find an adequate account of sanity. I forget much of the old galaxy but I remember the wars, the petty squabbles, the atrocities. Men eat men, sometimes even literally."

I do not have the words to reply. I feel sick with knowledge. The Keepers lock so much of it away. Better to wallow in ignorance than drown in truth they argue. Many Knights such as I resented their position and their predilection for hoarding. Now I finally see their creed's wisdom, when the full scope of depravity they shield us from is made clear.

Our street terminates at a gated tunnel. Its bars are elongated teeth and the archway is pocked with black eyes. The eyes take one glance at the Massassi and its teeth retract. Through there we plunge deeper, through a curtain of pale-grey organics. The Massassi pushes them away and the touch leaves a sticky residue of bile against his gauntlets. The tunnel is stifling with pipework covering the walls in threads of dark veins.

We emerge into an iron chamber. The air is swimming with red blotches, hanging in the air like puffs of smoke. Amidst the haze, I see pods lining the walls, clogged with nutrient cabling. Behind the glass are the foetal curl of occupants, saturated with blood and fleshplug-lubricants. They writhe in torment, moaning as their bodies waste away before my eyes.

"What is going on here?" I whisper harshly, but deep in my gut I can already discern the truth. This is a leeching chamber, a place to harvest Force essence and feed it to the soul-gluttons.

The chamber alone housed hundreds of pods, attended by scores of robed slaves. The giant racks hold them, row upon row, an industrial machine-city constructed around the delusions of the fearfully devout. Most of the occupants are barely more than husks now, their vitality sucked away by their voracious prisons.

At the far end of the chamber, I see a massive pair of brass doors, high and wide enough to fit a front line battle tank. Strange symbols are etched upon them, symbols that seem to warp and form images that hurt the eyes.

Someone glides towards our troupe, taller than the litter of menials shuffling at his heels. It was emaciated by any standard, so thin that its bones protruded like iron staves from under a lace-slender press of skin. Veins were visible, a black web just under the surface, pulsing weakly. Its spine was as arched, implanted with blades and wickedly curved devices. Under its leather robes it was dressed in figure-hugging greaves studded with steel pins, and loops of chains hung about its impossibly narrow waist, from which dangled crystal bottles filled with virulently coloured fluids.

"A mortal," it husks and the sound is like the dry wheeze from a deflating corpse. Why have you brought sin in here, Blessed One?"

 _ **"Sentencing. Queen,"**_ rumbles the Massassi.

"She is engaged in a feeding cycle. This wretch should be leeched like the rest."

 _ **"Holy ground profane. Punishment."**_

"This thing is unworthy to stand before her. It must-"

The hulking Massassi raises a hand.

" _ **It. Saw."**_

The spindly figure looks at me, surprised. Then he turns back to his robed attendants. I do not hear them say anything but their posture seems to suggest a form of communion. Minutes later, the gaunt figurehead turns back.

"The Queen has given permission," it announces, reluctant and steps aside. The brass doors begin creaking open, the scrape of metal against stone like a man's scream. The Massassi continues his inexorable march and I am yanked along by his horde of attendants.

Lower and lower we go. It is dark, almost unnaturally so but I can sense the changes all the same. The floor has become more sodden and bubbling. The noise of world engines is gone here, replaced by heavy, massed drumbeats – dhoom, dhoom, dhoom – a rhythm that shimmered up through every lightless chasm and down into every buttress, on and on, eternal, untouchable.

A heartbeat.

Now I understand. We are approaching the very epicentre of this world's infection. Flies are everywhere, instinctively drawn to the sentience that has taken root. It has flourished and extended, burrowing tendrils of awareness throughout the entire structure of this mega complex until iron is turned to flesh and adamantium to bone.

"Who is this Queen?" I dare to ask Craven. He gives me a sidelong glance and I can see a flicker of fear in his eyes. My only response is a shake of his head.

"You must know something," I persist, exasperated.

"Of course I know," he mutters. "The voices whisper snippets of knowledge all the time. You must have heard them by now. You can piece together the truth, if you have the patience. But knowing will not help you."

"For the sake of old ties, brother."

Craven gives a hollow laugh. "How can I describe it? She is one. She is many," he begins slowly. "So many names it had employed over so many long centuries of consciousness. But the Queen had been there in the very beginning, created amid the beautiful decay of the Celestial star-empire, rising to sentience as those city-worlds of abundance were consumed by the tumults of rebellion."

"Celestial?" I echo. The term is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps Revan would know more about the forgotten past.

Craven nods. "It was in the waning days of their glorious empire, when the Rakata and Killik races found the courage to rise up. War on a scale never seen since sundered the galaxy in Force cataclysms. Despite this setback, the First Empire should have won. They had the superior weapons and closer ties to the Force. But they overreached. They drank too deeply from the Well of Infinity and in so doing, triggered her birth scream."

We reach another set of brazen doors. Higher this time, over twenty metres and elaborately etched with murals of battles. For a split second, I can make out the image of a hulking monster, its tendrils enveloping what looked like a flaming world to gorge on the surface's bounty. Massive aliens guard the archway, their profiles unfamiliar but as gigantic and imposing as the Massassi himself. They did not so much as acknowledge us, standing like soulless carvings on either side of the gilded aperture. But the doors swung open, and fusty air sighed out of from the pool of darkness within. Across the lintel were alien phrases carved twice the height of a living man.

"Drained from war, the Celestials could not escape their doom," Craven whispers as we pass under. "The Queen-to-be stalked across their riven planetscapes, dissolving her victims into pure sensation, drinking the spirits of the world-makers as they howled and wept. She gorged upon the Force masters of those worlds, and ground its teeth on their living souls, drinking in the essence of their power and of their knowledge."

We descend once again, to wind down long, long spiral stairways that seemed to go on forever. The last of the angled light from the world above them faded away, replaced by the dour flicker of votive candles. The heartbeats become louder and more diffuse, resounding as if from vast wells below. Snatches of choir-dirge echoed and re-echoed from the vaults, drifting like spectres between vast, many-pillared columns. Arches swept above us into the murky heights, hung with weeping strange pennants and age-pitted skulls.

"With every system swallowed, she grew stronger. Becoming mightier than anything in existence, more ravenous, more spiteful. By the end there was nothing left. The Queen extinguished the Celestials from every plane of existence and built her kingdom upon their ashes. Be glad she has not been on a rampage like that since. I make no boast when I say the mightiest Jedi and Sith are less than bacteria to her. Of any age."

I frown. "If she is so mighty, why do our archives never speak of her? Why has the Order never brought her to heel?"

"How do you record something if nobody survives the encounter?" Craven counters. "But do not make the mistake of ignoring her influence. It is felt constantly in the mortal realm, even if no one realizes it. The Queen is the malice in our hearts, the rage and jealousy we feel when striking in anger. Every war ever waged in the galaxy is an act of worship for it strengthens and feeds her. She has become so intrinsically linked to the Force that the two are one in the same."

Craven gives me an equivocal look.

"This city and all its miracles are her creation. The innumerable spawn who serve are her children. And after everything you've seen them do, can you still believe that the Sith or the Order would pose the slightest threat to her?"

I have no answer to that. At the end of the descent is a short tunnel. The ground trembled underfoot here and it was almost unbearably hot. Ahead, a giant portal beckons, the largest I have seen yet. Its strange unlight sweeps over us, sustained by baroque arches crackling with energy and muttering slaves waving red incense candles. Through the haze, the swimming motes of power, I could make out strange slithering shapes. It was hard to gauge size in there – everything shook in a heat-tremor of psychic intensity, but I knew in my soul that this was the end.

This was the end of my journey.

"For what it's worth, I'm truly sorry they caught you alive," Craven whispers, laying a hand on my shoulder. "Few return from an audience with the Queen and none return sane. One way or another, this is the end for you."

His words bring a cold swell of nascent panic in my gorge. My breathing becomes shallow and rapid. I could sense the immensity of Force pressing down, the age of it, the agony of it, crushing my soul. It was irrational. I had left such things behind a long time ago, and yet the terror only grew. Every step became harder than the last. My palms pricked with sweat, and I had to force myself to remain upright.

The slaves can sense my reluctance. They are a silent, brooding presence at my shoulder, dragging me bodily towards the portal, their gait as secure and solid as the glinting basalt columns around them. But at the threshold the dread becomes intolerable and I hesitate, straining against the bonds.

"No," I mutter. _"No."_

The Massassi sees my resistance. He gestures and the whirlpool comes alive. Ethereal mist trails out from the portal and morphs into clawed hands. Before I can utter another word, the ectoplasm engulfs me and I am dragged through the swirling light.

* * *

 _ **Authors Notes:**_

 _Hope everyone enjoyed the latest chapter. Again, sorry for the wait. Just chipping at the story bit by bit when I have the time. I initially wanted to cram a lot more into it so I can get back to writing about the Triumph. But then I realized the story would look really rushed, so I decided to stagger things and give each scene the proper weight it deserves._

 _By the way, I have some new art on my deviantart page. Anyone fans of Mass Effect? Check it out if you're interested in it._

 _As always again, thanks to all my readers. Any feedback would be great. As always, please share and like if you enjoyed the story so far. Thanks!_

 _Responses to reviews:_

 _ **LeonCaboose**_ _chapter 19 . June 2, 2019_

 _Thanks! Always glad to hear back from you =)._

 _ **R4t0rian**_ _chapter 19 . May 8, 2019_

 _Thanks for understanding the delays. Things are getting pretty creepy aren't they? I'm glad you like Revan's assessment of the situation =). Exon's growing jealousy is definitely a factor in the story and this chapter probably didn't help it. Hopefully you found some of the tidbits in this chapter interesting!_


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